#every time the new costume designer opens her mouth I die a little bit more inside

[birgittesilverbae]

isis mussenden come back pls come look how they've massacred your boy

[theonewiththefanfics]

Hate (one-shot)

Synopsys: Bucky and reader have been stuck in the safe house for quite a while now, and the snow doesn’t seem like it will be letting off any time soon. New Year is creeping closer and closer. And it’s just the Reader’s luck that she’s stuck with a person who absolutely despises her guts.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Genre: fluuuuuuuuffff, soft angst 

Warnings: swearing, the reader is so dumb... like the last three brain cells she had, left the chat because of what an idiot she is

Word count: 2816

He hated her. Y/N was absolutely one hundred percent sure – Bucky Barnes despised her. The war veteran, the last serving Howling Commando, the longest-held war prisoner and the man who had stolen her heart hated her.

      She watched him from over the rim of her coffee cup, how his long brown locks fell over his high cheekbones, and he huffed pushing them away from his face. Y/N had to force down the groan of just how much she had to restrain herself from going over, running her fingers through his hair and maybe tying it back in a little bun. Fuck, if he ever did that, she was sure she’d die from the hotness that was Bucky Barnes.

      They hadn’t known one another for that long. Y/N had joined the Avengers a couple of months after the whole Thanos thing. For one, she had been one of the unfortunate ones to be dusted. She had been taking a warm, relaxing bath after a long day when her feet suddenly disintegrated in the water. The last thing Y/N had managed was to throw her book over the side, so at least that didn’t get wet.

      Sam had found her after everyone was brought back by Bruce. He was recruiting new people for the team as the new captain, and the first thing she had been there to witness was his try-on haul of the new star-spangled costume.

      “Don’t you think it’s a bit novel?” Y/N asked biting on her lip. “I think the shield would be enough to tell them who’s the boss.”

      “It’s a symbol!” Sam emphasized and turned around to look at his ass. “It’s supposed to send a message.”

      Y/N hid her smile behind her palm and shrugged. “Just… never picked you as the tights guy.”

      Sam groaned. “They are not tights!”

      That was the moment when Y/N had met Bucky, and that’s when all of her rational thinking flew out of the window faster than Redwing.

      He came sauntering into the living room, a grey T-shirt stained with sweat and clinging to his body, the fabric defining each and every muscle the man owned. When Sam said that Y/N started drooling quite literally, it might've been because of the fact that a little dribble of her coffee she had had in her mouth actually spilt out on her leg.

      “You look like the American fucking flag,” Bucky snorted and gulped down a large mouthful of water, cocking his hip out.

      Fuck, Y/N thought to herself, how in the absolute hell can someone drinking be the most sinful thing on Earth. Like holy hell when did sweat become a turn on for her? Especially when it slowly slid along his neck and disappeared down his chest. She had to close her eyes to remove the mental image of him panting on top of her. Sweaty, like in that moment, but because of different reasons.

      “Fuck off, tin can,” Sam snapped back, “or I’ll replace you with her.” He motioned with his head towards Y/N, and she ducked further down on the couch. “You’re not special with your sniping.”

      Bucky shook his head and threw her a quizzical look. “And what’s so special about you?”

      Y/N would’ve probably answered nothing, that she’s completely ordinary because actually talking about her abilities and giving herself some credit was way beyond her skill set, so Sam stepped in.

      “She’s an army vet and was in the Snakeskin program.”

      Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “Snakeskin?”

      “They were an elite ground force group of troops trained to be as stealthy as assassins. Her specialty is sniping. So, don't go on thinking you're something special. 'Cause you're not.”

      The super soldier now fully looked her over, and Y/N wanted the couch to cut open and swallow her whole, because holy fucking fuck, was Bucky’s gaze intense. It was like he was trying to carve out her soul just by looking at her. The only thing that came to her mind was to give him an awkward smile and a small wave. He gave her a nod and then looked back at Sam.

      “I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Steve said he wanted some help with repainting the fence.”

      “Yeah, you go be a good wife,” Sam waved him off and looked himself over once more in the mirror. “And please remind him he owes me twenty bucks.”

      “What for?” Bucky hollered from the hallway.

      “He knows!”

      They only heard a scoff before the elevator dinged, announcing Bucky’s exit.

      “So,” Sam looked at Y/N through the mirror. “That went well.”

      If only that was how she saw it. Y/N thought Bucky hated her, and Sam’s little remark about her replacing him was not sitting well with the woman. She wasn’t there to replace anyone, least of all one of her childhood heroes who was doing everything in his power to prove his worth to the world (even though she didn’t think he had anything to prove and everyone else could just go off and fuck themselves).

      She was just there to hopefully once again regain some sort of a sense to her life. After leaving the Snakeskin program, and being one of the victims of the Snap, it was hard to find where she belonged. Then Sam called Y/N up and told her they were reforming the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, and he wanted her to be a part of it, so she jumped on the opportunity.

      And that’s what lead them to that moment – Y/N slowly sipping her coffee as Bucky tried to finish up a crossword puzzle. From time to time she glanced up from the swirling black liquid to the super-soldier, but of course, he wasn’t paying any kind of attention to her. He never did.

      After their first meeting, their interactions were limited to small ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes’ and communicating during missions. There was never any direct animosity, but the fact that Bucky talked to everyone on a daily basis except for Y/N – well, she didn’t need it to be spelt out.

      But it was just Y/N’s luck, wasn’t it? First, she got sent out on a mission with a man who can’t stand to even spare her a glance, then they get snowed in without a way out (even the jet was seven feet under the snow), and now New Years was right around the corner, and she would have to spend it all alone.

      Y/N looked out the window to the never-changing scene of swirling white flakes. They weaved and moved in a dance she couldn’t comprehend. But while she watched what was happening beyond the glass, Bucky was watching her.

      His eyes trailed the way her face curved and sloped, eyelids half-closed surveying the scenery, but mostly how her flannel shirt had slipped off from one of her shoulders. He so badly wanted to reach out and gently place it back to where it was, but he couldn’t.

      Bucky was no longer the same confident man in an army uniform that used to sweep ladies off their feet and make them dance the night away. This man woke up in the middle of the night in cold sweat and could barely keep eye contact with anyone that wasn’t Steve, Shuri or Sam for no longer than five seconds. So, pulling Y/N’s shirt back up was out of the fucking question. But he didn’t have to dwell on it for too long.

      “I’m gonna take a shower,” she announced, although she had no real idea as to why. Bucky only responded with a hum, which she guessed was more than what she expected to receive, but then again – it was more of an acknowledgement than she’d gotten in the three days they’d been stranded together.

      The stream of hot water pelleting her skin was a welcome change from the icy touch of being ignored and discarded. Although Y/N was stuck in a safe house somewhere in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere in Finland, it was a Stark-created safehouse. So, it was occupied by every possible piece of technology. Including the best speakers known to man.

      Because Y/N was a punk-rock emo bitch at heart (did you really think I wouldn’t put this in? Killjoys are back, suckers! Put on your fucking eyeliner and get ready cause it was not a phase, mom, it's a fucking lifestyle!), her playlist automatically switched from ‘Kicking-Ass’ that was designed to hype her up during missions to ‘Singing-Like-A-Rock-Star’ with ‘Gives You Hell’ blasting through the bathroom.

      It was like Tony had known that people would be absolutely jamming in the bathrooms because the floor was lined with a rubber mat, giving Y/N the freedom to go ham.

      And she sent up a little 'thank you' to wherever Tony was because she had needed that. She had needed to let go of all of the tension and thoughts that had collected in her body just so she could re-enter that same worrying state a second later. Just with clean hair now.

      Pulling on comfy grey sweats and a huge navy-blue T-shirt, she twisted the towel and plopped it back over her head to keep the wet strands away. The house was constantly warm because Bucky kept the fireplace stocked almost 24/7, but it was even warmer now as he had added a new pile of wood, though the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Which was fine by Y/N.

      With a huff and a roll of her head, she ventured into the kitchen, having decided that dinner needed to be had. It was halfway through her boiling pasta when the shrill sound of her phone ringing made her drop the sauce-slathered spoon.

      “Yeah?” She pressed the phone between her shoulder and ear and went to wash off the spoon, careful not to put the curved-inward part under the stream.

      “Y/N,” Sam’s warm voice invaded her senses. “How are you holding up? Fury and Maria says the storm’s still raging.”

      A glance outside of the window told her as much. “Any news on when it might stop?”

      “None at this moment,” Sam replied. “They’re checking every five minutes for an update so they can finally send an extraction bird out.”

      “Ooh, can you ask Maria to send the one with the bed?”

      “Sorry,” Sam sighed in mock sadness, “that one’s been sent out to Guatemala to pick up Wanda.”

      “Ugh,” Y/N groaned and threw her head back. “Damn Wanda and her mission. Could she not like manage until she got back to the Tower? It's not like she's had to sleep in the middle of the jungle or something?”

      Sam laughed, and it made her smile, knowing that he understood her joking tone. “Yeah, right? What a princess!”

      Y/N smiled and finally added the pasta to the boiling water. “What are you gonna get her for her birthday?”

      “Dunno,” her friend replied. “She’s been looking at that one perfume for a while, but we gotta figure out what Vis is getting first… speaking of other halves – you and Bucky getting on well?”

      Y/N huffed turning to face the boiling pot and stirring the pasta in it. A little vortex formed completely mimicking how she felt on the inside. “As well as two people who can’t stand to be near one another, but have to share a place, can.”

      She heard him chuckle. “Come on, it can’t be that bad! I still don’t think you’re in the right about this.”

      “About what?” her eyebrows furrowed. She took out a piece of pasta and chewed on it. Still wasn’t the right texture.

      “About Bucky. I think you’ve got it all wrong.”

      The scoff that wanted to escape her throat was blocked by the piece of food, and she almost choked on it. “Sam, he fucking hates me!”

      “I – I don’t hate you,” came a voice from behind Y/N, and she spun around, mouth left hanging open as her phone was clutched tightly by her ear.

      She could practically hear Sam grin through the phone. “I guess you gotta go.”

      Bucky stepped closer just as she lowered the now silent mobile. “Y/N, why would you ever think I hate you?”

      “Be – because you do?”

      “When did I say that?”

      She shook her head. “You didn’t have to.”

      Bucky’s whole face fell at her words. “What do you mean?”

      “I mean you talk with everyone else but me. You can’t look me in the eye one bit, and do I need to remind you when you actually left the whole Christmas gala thing right after I walked in, and I quote ‘I can’t be around her’.”

      Bucky’s eyes widened, and this time it was his jaw that hung open. “You heard that.”

      “Loud and clear.”

      “I – I,” he stammered and then cleared his throat. It was time to put all the cards on the table. “I only said that because had I stayed; I would’ve done something I’d regret.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like kissed you.”

      And there went Y/N’s breath. And her heart. And her sanity. And frankly, everything she’d ever known.

      “I would’ve most likely told you how I felt,” he said and stepped closer watching every facial feature of hers.

      “And how do I make you feel?” she breathed out.

      “Nervous. I haven’t had feelings like this for a girl in decades… and I didn’t know how to process them let alone act on them. Things have changed so much since I was chasing skirts… nowadays everything’s so complicated… and I was scared you wouldn’t feel the same. I mean, we have to work together, and we live in the same place, so if things didn’t work out… I just didn’t wanna risk it.”

      As he talked, she had started to pace. In stressful situations where she didn’t have to focus on pulling the trigger or if she wasn’t trying not to trip off a treadmill, Y/N paced. A lot. She was pretty sure there was a line in the living room floor where she had done her thinking before missions.

      “Wait, so you like me?” Y/N spun around and pointed at him. “Like really like me?”

      “Yeah,” Bucky chuckled as relief flooded his veins. He wouldn’t have smiled as wide as he did, had he not seen her lips quirk up. “Yeah, I really like you.”

      “And you don’t hate me?”

      “Not one bit.”

      Y/N stepped forward, head hanging low as she carefully grasped Bucky’s hand and intertwined their fingers, metal twining with flesh. “So, you like me?” she looked up at him, eyes intently watching his face. He squeezed her palm stepping closer as well, chest to chest at that point. He placed both of their hands right over his beating heart.

      “Yeah, I do... Happy New Year, Y/N,” Bucky muttered with a shy smile gracing his face.

      “What?” she had been so lost in his eyes that his words weren’t registering. His soft chuckle was like a melody designed by angels.

      “I said Happy New Year.”

      Y/N looked down to the worn watch on his right wrist and sure enough, the two hands were perfectly aligned to 12. A small chuckle escaped her mouth as she reconnected their gazes.

      “Happy New Year, Buck.”

      He was so close to her; she could smell the hot chocolate he had been drinking. Y/N closed her eyes, insides trembling as he leaned closer. But the kiss never came

      “I heard you in the shower.”

      “What!?”

      Bucky grabbed a spoon from the table and used it as a microphone, pointing at Y/N and wiggling his hips to the rhythm of the song. “’ Hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell!’” She shoved him away from her and through a laugh threw her towel at him.

      “Ugh, I hate you!”

      “No, you don’t!” Bucky grabbed at her waist and pulled her to him. Together they plopped down on the couch, and Bucky didn’t hesitate to pull her in his lap, legs thrown over his and head resting against his shoulder. Y/N looked up at him, her hand leaning against his stomach as she drew gentle circles on the shirt clad torso.

      “Can I kiss you?”

      She chuckled and moved closer to Bucky. “Are you still going to make fun of me and my singing?”

      He looked like he was contemplating before he nodded, a wide smile on his face as he pressed his forehead against hers. “Yeah. Most definitely. For as long as you let me.”

      “And if I say forever?”

      She didn’t need to hear him say what was on his mind when the only thing that existed was Bucky’s smile. Y/N’s own lips widened, as he bent closer. The New Year and the new decade had begun quite a few minutes ago, but neither cared much because as their lips touched, a new chapter in their lives opened.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Bucky tag list: @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn​ @projectxhappiness​ @callmebucky-doll​ @coal000​ @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken​ @sophiealiice​ @raquelbc2003​ @watch-out-for-thorns​ @potentially-kinetic​ @thatonegirljessy99​ @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub​ @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611​ @horrorx570ximagines​ @the-nargles-made-me-do-it​ @pooslie​ @itsisabelanotisabella @httpmcrvel​ @purplebananatragedy​ @pxrrishly​ @parker-barnes-af​ @skulliebythesea​ @california-grown​ @stevehesaidabadlanguageword​ @belongsto-prachi​ @hello-i-am-insane @its-nott-my-problem

Marvel tags: @nerissa98​ @happyseagrill​ @asguardiansoftheavengers​ @crazybutconfidentaf​ @wishingforahome​ @pizzarollpatrol​ @desir-ae​

Forever tags: @lumelgy​ @palaiasaurus64​ @supernaturalbaesduh​ @breezy1415​ @crazy--me​ @thatawkwardlittlefangirl​ @sea040561​ @staryeyedgirl​ @deathbyarabbit​ @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91​ @dalilx​ @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki​ @maladaptive-ninja-returns​ @averyrogers83​ @in-the-end-im-still-trash​ @gallifreyansass​ @dewy-biitch​ @avxgers​ @unlikelygalaxygiver​ @sweet-ladyy​ @magicwithaknife​ @ollyoxenfrees​ @bnhvrdy​ @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines​ @thatkindofgurl​ @sj-thefan​ @teenwolflover28

A/N: Hi! so, quite a lot of things have happened. and the biggest thing is... I’m gonna be seeing MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE in JUNE!!! AAAHHHHH!!! I’ve been a fan of them since I was nine, and now I finally get the chance to see them perform live! I’ve never been so stressed in my life while trying to get tickets to something! I was in the middle of my 9 AM lecture and I was legit shaking. I fuffed about for like 3 seconds and those 3 seconds cost me the tickets... at first! and then it was like the emo gods were smiling down upon me, I saw there was another date added. I thought it was a glitch in the system because nothing was announced. so, obviously, I clicked off, only for my twitter notification to go off that they have announced they have added another date. I think it’s fair to say that I was barely functioning as I clicked furiously on my computer. And now I get the chance to see them... I am STOAKED!!!

[justwritingsomethingsisuppose]

Beauty and the Beast - Crowley x reader, CH1

Title: Beauty and the Beast

Prompt: 100 themes challenge; #36, Fairy Tale

Pairing: Crowley x Female Reader

Chapter: 1/? (I’ll work more on this while writing for the other 100 themes, so new chapters are likely to be slow)

Rating: Currently PG, will eventually be upped

Author: justwritingsomethingsisuppose

Warnings: Violence at some point, body image issues, I’m ripping this off both movies and the Beastly movie and the og story so thats a warning too, good luck. Re-writing this off a 5 year old story. Alternative universe.

Once upon a time, in a land faraway, a young prince lived in a shining castle. His name was Fergus, and he was destined to be the king after his father and mother, King Lucifer and Queen Rowena, passed away. Although the young prince had everything his heart desired, he was spoiled and selfish and unkind.

One winters night, a cold and wicked storm rolled over the forest their castle resided in. Freezing winds whipped at the shaking windows and stone walls. Prince Fergus seemed to care not as he pranced about the castle, pretending to sword fight an imaginary dragon with one of the fireplace pokers.

Late into the evening, a knock at the castle door echoed through the main hall. Fergus lowered his fireplace-poker-sword to his side and watched from the staircase as a servant rushed to answer the knock.

The door swinging open revealed a woman, hair gray and back bent with her old age.

“What do you want?” Prince Fergus’ young voice echoed through the hall with his demanding question. The old woman looked up, first laying her eyes on the servant holding the door open, then moving them to find the young prince. Her once-brown eyes were clouded over as if she were going blind.

“I need shelter from the cold,” she croaked out. Her voice barely made it to Prince Fergus’ ears, but he heard enough.

“Why would I allow you, a haggard old thing, stay in my castle??” He crossed his arms, the fireplace poker still in hand almost like a threat.

“I will give you, in return, this rose,” she held up a single beautifully red flower. It shook along with her hand as she revealed it to him.

All he did was laugh at her.

“Are you joking, you absolute hag?? I am the royal prince of these lands! What use have I for a single rose?!”

“Do not be deceived by my appearance, young one. Beauty is found within,” she flashed him a grin, revealing that she had no teeth. Prince Fergus gagged dramatically at the sight. He stepped rapidly down the stairs and rushed up to the door. He shoved away the servant tending the door with a disgusted sound and grasped the door handle with his free hand, his light brown eyes staring fiercely at the woman.

“You possess no beauty, and you have nothing to offer me. My castle will have no hags within its walls tonight!!” And with those words, he slammed the heavy wooden door shut in the old woman’s face. “The utter audacity… how dare she?!” He grumbled to himself as he turned around.

“I am no hag, boy!” A voice echoed through the room and his eyes darted around in fear. He flattened his back to the closed door.

“Leave me be, witch! I will not have you here!” His eyes still searched frantically, searching for the once-quiet old woman. Her voice seemed to be right next to his ear and coming from outside and coming from the entryway and coming from everywhere at once.

“Beauty is found within. There is no love in your heart; you only desire the things in your life that appear beautiful. You have no care or compassion for the ones that need you despite their appearances.” Her voice seemed to grow less shaky and more youthful as she spoke. All at once, a blazing light appeared before him that then faded away to reveal the form of the old hag.

“Please, witch, leave me be, please!” His voice was no longer demanding, but pleading. Before his eyes, her saggy muddy skin seemed to tighten and the deep chocolate tone returned. Her gray hair slowly flushed a deep brown. The curve of her back slowly straightened up. Her once-cloudy eyes slowly brightened and turned to black. When she opened her mouth to speak, she had teeth. She was beautiful now.

“You will learn to see the beauty within.” She stated.

“Please, I am sorry! You may shelter from the cold in my castle! I am certain my father will not mind! Please!” He shouted his fearful apology to her. His brown eyes began to water, lip trembling.

“You will learn to see the beauty within.” She repeated, outstretching her right hand. The glow encased the room once again and then a shrill whistle filled his ears.

The whistle was her voice, heightened and repeating her phrase and his designated punishment.

His punishment was to be turned into a hideous beast. His skin ripped and shredded and his bones bent and writhed as his body changed from that of a young 16 year old man to that of a demon.

Through the entire transformation, Prince Fergus screamed. All he could hear was the voice of the witch and his own skin ripping apart. All he could see was the brilliant glow of her powers enveloping him. All he could taste was his own blood as his teeth elongated and sharpened, cutting his gums and his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

His face felt like it was on fire.

“You must learn to love someone other than yourself, and you must earn their love in return, before the last petal falls from this rose. Else, you will forever remain a reflection of your inner self. Prince Fergus, good luck.” Her voice echoed in his mind loudly, only to fade out and be replaced by horrified screams mixed with his own pained sobs.

His mother, Queen Rowena, had been fetched and brought down by the doorman who had realized something was wrong. She had frozen in place on the stairs when her eyes fell upon her disfigured son. Her screams rattled the prince into opening his eyes, which were now glowing red.

“Mother! Mother please, help me!” He cried out to her, but she could merely stare in horror.

“Noooo… my dear little Fergus…” she groaned out before fainting. The doorman caught her before she could collapse down the stairs.

Fergus forced himself to stand despite the pain in his legs. The sound of hooves on wood surprised him and he looked down at his feet, only to discover two black cloven hooves where his feet used to be. His legs seemed to be covered with thick, light brown hair all the way down to those hooves.

“M-mother?!” His voice sounded deeper, almost raspy despite his youth. He lifted his shaking hands up from his sides to stare at them - what were once delicate and thin white fingers were now grayed sunken skin ending in long hooked claws. The grayed skin continued up his arms to his shoulders where it faded back to white but began to appear riddled with thick, raised, red scars. His head and his back felt heavy where a pair of thick leathery wings and a great many horns had sprouted through his skin. He stumbled a bit in place before he looked up at the doorman holding his mother. “Wh… what am I??” he asked. The doorman just jerked his head while his jaw hung agape, fearful of the once-princely creature before him.

His parents did all they could to heal him. They called in a doctor, a healer, a man who claimed to be a miracle worker, and as a last resort a witch. None could remove his disfigurements. His skull adorned now with horns, his face now appeared as though it were burned, his chest scarred, his arms aged, his fingers tipped with claws, his back bearing wings, his legs now those of a goat or deer.

He was well and truly stuck as a monster.

That night, they had found the rose laying delicately in the center of the foyer. His mother had preserved it in a vase, hoping to extend its life and ensure her son wouldn’t die. The rose never seemed to wilt, a faint red glow surrounding the dainty little flower and seemingly keeping it alive.

After a year, the king and queen moved from the forest to their summer castle on the coast. They promised to visit, and they did at first. Over time, their visits went from once monthly, to once every third month, to once a year, to… none. Even their letters stopped. He lived alone in that castle for twenty years, only a small remaining and aging staff to care for him, until he finally got news: both his parents had finally passed and left behind the heir to their throne, a princess named Megan, eighteen years of age and ready to marry one Prince Azazel from another kingdom to unite the two and gain the throne.

The servants remaining tried to keep him happy, to get him adjusted to his life this way, but to no avail. One of the servants, the castle’s hunter, even created an intricate mask for him from the head of a large goat he had killed. The mask had two horns on it and holes for the horns in the princes head to slide through so that it would all look like a costume piece, and it hid his burned face from the world. All for nothing; despite that the prince wore it every day, he was ever grumpier. Prince Fergus grew angry and bitter and frustrated. One by one, he ended the employment of the servants until none were left but two: Guthrie, his butler and one so loyal that even though the prince had fired him several times and told him to leave under threat of death the man refused to leave, and Raul, who prepared every single meal. The prince likely would never have eaten if Raul had left.

Twenty years of quiet, of being virtually alone, of slowly watching the rose wilt petal by petal. He believed he held no chance of ever breaking the curse over his head.

For who could ever learn to love a beast?

[chapitre7]

The heart at the tip of a brush

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

College / Drama Club AU

Read on AO3

Mo Xuanyu had always been their make-up artist. Lan Zhan had always been in charge of the costumes, ever since Wei Ying found the sketchbook where he kept the designs he came up with in the hours between sleep and homework, when he allowed himself to flounder the wings of his imagination. Embarrassed as he was of his hobby, he didn’t even know why he had carried the sketchbook with him that day (maybe confused it with his regular notebooks?), but after the initial shock of being discovered, he had relented to Wei Ying’s cries and pleadings and had agreed to be the last member in his brand new drama club. What set them apart, Wei Ying had told him with exaggerated gallantry, was that they’d write their own plays and enact them, instead of somebody else’s. Pretty big talk for someone who wouldn’t actually do the writing, Jiang Cheng barked, but he still joined the club anyway, the flair for the dramatic flowing in his veins as much as it did in Wei Ying’s; truly brothers, no matter the blood ties and several other differences between them.

 So the club started then, each one of them being responsible for too many things and also not much at all, in those early days of chaotic planning, until they gathered more members and set a clear goal in mind: the school festival. It was an embarrassment, as school projects often were, but Wei Ying’s joy at seeing all of their work fulfilled in an hour of glory (“What glory? MianMian forgot her lines and ruined my impeccable script, Brother Wei! It won’t do, it really won’t do!”) somehow emboldened them to try harder and strive higher. So, at Wen Ning’s suggestion, on their second year, they started enacting plays at the local orphanage. The reward of the kids’ starstruck faces fed them better than any feast, and so they continued, every year, sometimes twice a year, all the way till college.

 With such responsibility on their shoulders, it was natural for everyone to get pumped up, even going so far as to enlist some of their family members to lend their hands. Such as Lan Zhan sewing all of their costumes with his brother’s help, who had an eye for subtle details that Lan Zhan treasured, as he always did with all of his brother’s inputs throughout his life. Along with elder brother Lan came Meng Yao, who enriched Nie Huaisang’s scripts with twists and turns that made the fan-wielding boy think up even wilder twists and turns that Wei Ying’s creative mind ate up like his favorite spicy pumpkin-flavored cookies from the local coffee shop (that literally nobody but him liked). Jiang Cheng was their lead actor, Luo Qingyang, stage name MianMian, their lead actress, and everybody did a little bit of acting, even if they had no lines, as was often the case with Lan Zhan (at Wei Ying’s request).

 And Mo Xuanyu was in charge of their make-up.

 Not Lan Zhan.

 Never Lan Zhan.

 Yet there he is, covering for the sick man, standing in front of a smiling Wei Ying, who looks every bit like the evil sorcerer that they had perfected through the years, while Nie Huaisang, the second-best make-up artist of their little rogue troupe, frenzies over MianMian.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, the gentle tone of his voice coloring his name, holding the familiar hint of apology that he often uses when he drags Lan Zhan to adventures his friend doesn’t appreciate as much as Wei Ying had anticipated. “It’s really not that difficult. It’s not too different from coloring your designs, and you’ve seen the end results. This is nothing your brilliant, talented hands can’t handle!”

 Flattery could get him anywhere as long as Lan Zhan was involved, but the young man still swallows down around the anxiety that has installed itself at his stomach like acid, not having much to do with being able to pull off a decent make-up job and everything to do with leaning over Wei Ying and painting on him like a canvas.

 Unaware of the not-so-honorable battle that Lan Zhan fights against himself, Wei Ying places the eyeshadow palette in Lan Zhan’s palm and leans against the back of the chair, tilting his face up. It’s so innocent, so trusting and professional, and Lan Zhan leans over him for a brief second before remembering he’s not holding any brushes. How surprised would everyone be if Lan Zhan simply bolted out of the modest, well-lit bedroom that they used as a dressing room and screamed in the backyard full of children waiting for the play to begin? He can’t even process the mental image, but knowing that it’s impossible seems to ground him.

 Firmly holding a brush in his hand, Lan Zhan swallows again — doesn’t scream —, inhales, and sets himself to work.

 It really isn’t so difficult once he begins. He knows exactly what color Mo Xuanyu uses on Wei Ying, so accustomed he is to seeing his friend play the fearsome Yiling Patriarch. It’s a highlight of red on the crease of his eyes, to give him a sharper look, scheming and compelling at the same time. Lan Zhan uses his own thumb to smudge the same red on his eyelids, just a tiny bit, just a brush of color, a gradient of red that matches up with the color scheme that Lan Zhan set up for his character a long time ago, which was really just a fantasy take on Wei Ying’s own style.

 With a thin brush, he sets to draw a perfect black contour on Wei Ying’s lash line, for when he opens his eyes, he needs him to look as if he could transmutate into a cat at any given moment, so round and marble-like those brown eyes look then, mesmerizing the audience.

 Satisfied with his job on his eyes, Lan Zhan sparkles a peach color on his cheeks so he looks healthy and ready to gobble up misbehaving children. And then his lips...

 He curses Mo Xuanyu and his food poisoning, and then he mentally apologizes. All those years in high school trying to ignore just how pretty Wei Ying is as he tried to get Lan Zhan’s attention, how pretty he even was when he was asleep and drooling on Lan Zhan’s dinner table where they were supposed to brainstorm the theme of their next play. Years of trying not to betray the honesty of their friendship, because he could spend forever watching the endless capability Wei Ying’s ideas, and he liked being included in his group, doing something that he had been curious about but ignoring for the sake of his academic success, until Wei Ying taught him that he could have both the success and the fun of doing something you like. All of it, and also the dreams where Wei Ying kissed him (because he was never the one to initiate it), touched him, pinned him to the floor from where he fell in endless loops — all of his inappropriate desire falls upon a single, tiny brush of red.

 Holding Wei Ying’s chin, he glides the brush, shiny and glossy, over the center of Wei Ying’s lower lip and then out to the sides. Then he draws the heart shape of his upper lip, careful not to color outside the natural lines of Wei Ying’s mouth, slowly, slowly covering every corner with calculated precision. He’s mindful not to use too much product, knowing by its consistence that it can smear unsightly, but it still accumulates in the corners, and he wipes it away with his digit, using the tip of his nail to draw the proper line again.

 His gaze moves up and the eyes he framed are looking straight at him. How long had he been staring at him? How long had Lan Zhan even been working? And why can’t he hear the others getting ready around them?

 His breathing, that had been steady — and he had, by all accounts, been touching Wei Ying’s face as he hovered over him, trying to make him even more beautiful than the memory of their past plays — fails him as the tip of Wei Ying’s tongue peaks through, just the tip, before he touches his lips together. His teeth look whiter with that red framing them, and Lan Zhan can’t look away, he’s mesmerized by that mouth that loves to talk to him, pouring out considerations from topics Lan Zhan had never even considered but that he understands when Wei Ying talks about them. But now he’s not talking, his lips are just perfect and unmoving and parted, and Wei Ying still has his chin tilted up at him, and he’s so near. Why isn’t Wei Ying saying anything? Where is everyone? Why is he gripping the arms of Wei Ying’s chair—

 “Are you done there yet?!”

 Jiang Cheng’s call is very clear and very near, and Lan Zhan is aware that he has made an undignified jump away from his position in 0.1 seconds flat. He expects Wei Ying to laugh at him, as he does in almost every situation, but when Lan Zhan dares to raise his eyes back at his friend, he’s also standing and adjusting his cuffs before checking his reflection on a nearby mirror.

 “Wow,” is all that he says about Lan Zhan’s work, and Lan Zhan is surprised that, despite the panicked drumming of his heart against his chest that spells out all of his secret infatuation, he’s still glad that Wei Ying seems pleased about the results.

 “I... I kept it simple,” he says, and it’s true. Xuanyu uses a plethora of products that Lan Zhan doesn’t quite begin to understand the purpose of, and he still wouldn’t have taken as long as Lan Zhan did given his expertise.

 Wei Ying, however, just shakes his head and gives him an honest (and painfully distracting) smile.

 “These kids are in for an especially striking Yiling Patriarch today,” he says and smirks, and Lan Zhan wants to kiss him and die, and those ideas don’t feel as isolated as he originally thought they’d be. “Let’s go, Lan Zhan.”

 Lan Zhan is terribly relieved that they had decided to write him out for today, because he’s not confident he’d remember to say any of his lines, even if they were just mostly hums, with Wei Ying playing his flute in a particularly intense tempo, eyes glued on him, as if he was the one he wanted to enchant.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan, create my new character with me.”

 That is the sole reason why Wei Ying arrives early to one of the few classes they have together, the very next week after their performance. Their professor is never late, but that doesn’t keep Wei Ying from throwing his notebook at him, an old thing, full of scribbles that date to a place in time when they didn’t even know each other. Wei Ying makes a list of attributes, sitting in his own space but leaning over Lan Zhan’s desk with inspiration at the tip of his tongue. He looks up at Lan Zhan with eyes that might as well sparkle like in the comics he once convinced Lan Zhan to read.

 “I want to be a hero,” Wei Ying says, voice brimming with an emotion Lan Zhan can’t quite place, and they’re only forced out of their own world when the professor clears his throat loudly, quite pointedly looking in their direction.

 Although he takes his notes dutifully, Wei Ying keeps throwing him glances with barely contained excitement, and in the back of Lan Zhan’s mind, in-between the professor’s pauses, he’s already working on the design.

 ***

 The troupe doesn’t have to meet for some time, given they all also have to focus on their own assignments and upcoming exams. When they do, after New Year celebrations, it’ll be time to brainstorm, and Wei Ying, diligent for all the wrong things at the wrong times, plans to pitch his brand new concept.

 “He’s going to be one of two prides,” he says, sprawled on Lan Zhan’s couch, his hands raised high, as far as he can reach, palms splayed, as if he can already see the scenes playing out on the ceiling.

 “Prideful?” Lan Zhan questions from his place on the floor, leaning against the couch and looking at Wei Ying, his sketchbook on the low table before him, waiting.

 “Hmm, not his definitive trait. His brother is though — that’s Jiang Cheng, of course —, as the rightful heir to the kingdom. I’ll be...”

 “A general?”

 “A loyal servant and prized adviser? You know, sort of like Merlin. But I don’t wanna be a sorcerer this time, I wanna wield a sword. I love brother Mingjue’s props.”

 Lan Zhan huffs, and whether it’s about Nie Mingjue’s props or the idea of Wei Ying being an adviser, he doesn’t say.

 “Lan Zhan, close your eyes and imagine it.”

 He leans his head back, more against Wei Ying than the couch, and does so. One of Wei Ying’s hands sets over his eyes, for unnecessary effect, and Lan Zhan can’t help but allow himself to smile.

 “A prince and his right hand, the twin prides. One is the rightful heir, the other is... adopted, yes. Together they defend Lotus Pier against invaders, and their rising success brings them notoriety among the other kingdoms. What do you think?”

 “Purple.”

 “Hmm?”

 “The royal color of Lotus Pier should be purple. Pink is too light, purple is better. Like Yunmeng’s sky in the summer.”

 “You still remember that?”

 Wei Ying lifts his hand from his eyes, resting it on his hair as Lan Zhan turns his head around to look at Wei Ying, acquiescing with a hum. The last time he went to Yunmeng for the summer, he sent Lan Zhan dozens of pictures, including one from the beach at sunset, when the sky was a gradient of orange and purple, like a painting. Wei Ying thought Lan Zhan would love that one, and he did, making sure he told Wei Ying that instead of keeping it to himself.

 (Although he loved and saved all of them to his phone anyway, but he kept that to himself.)

 “Isn’t that what you were thinking about? Lotus. Yunmeng.”

 Wei Ying smiles and hums an agreement of his own, his fingers brushing Lan Zhan’s bangs away from his face. And because they’re both so easy to read to each other, and Wei Ying’s gaze is so unmistakably fond, and because he feels himself too open, Lan Zhan lifts his head from the couch and leans forward, fingers hurriedly taking up his mechanic pencil to scribble down a few keywords. Purple. Twins. Adopted. Adviser.

 “I haven’t figured out how to go about it yet,” Wei Ying says as he moves from the couch to sit beside Lan Zhan on the floor, “but I wanted to create a different kind of hero than we’ve worked with before.”

 “The adoption part will be important for the children,” Lan Zhan points out with a nod. “It’s good, Wei Ying.”

 Wei Ying lets out a strangled noise and takes hold of Lan Zhan’s left arm, rubbing his face on his upper arm before looking back at Lan Zhan. His cheeks and nose are red, but he has the same excited glint in his eyes that he had when he approached Lan Zhan in class the day before, and Lan Zhan thinks it simply belongs there. This is his favorite Wei Ying, creative and free, and though he’s bound by his academic responsibilities, as long as Lan Zhan is with him, he’ll make sure he succeeds in everything he does. Everything for that crescent moon smile, full of stars.

 “So, what else?”

 Lan Zhan’s mechanic pencil hovers over the paper as they think, scribbling down more keywords, until it becomes so late in the evening that Wei Ying misses his dormitory’s curfew and has to sleep at Lan Zhan’s flat, in a guest bedroom that holds more of Wei Ying’s forgotten possessions than those of Lan Zhan’s brother, who was supposedly the person he kept the room for.

 ***

 “Why did you keep the red ribbon?”

 Lan Zhan sets his red pencil down, lifting his sketchbook so both of them can think about it together.

 “Both Wanyin and Wuxian use the same clothes and hairstyle, as twins and members of the royal family. Wanyin, as the heir, wears the crown’s jewelry in his hair. Wuxian is a main character too, so he can’t look any less striking, so, the red ribbon.”

 It’s your color goes unsaid. His hair is long, past his shoulders, though Jiang Cheng keeps telling him to get it cut like a normal person, and he always ties it with a red velvet scrunchie. As the Yiling Patriarch, he wore a red ribbon in his hair, and when he played the dizi and a gust of wind blew by him, he was mesmerizing, the red unforgettable against Wen Ning’s hand-drawn background. There was always something red about Wei Ying; a red backpack, red converse, and that red lipstick... Lan Zhan still dreams about it.

 It should be there. Yet Wei Ying keeps his brows furrowed at the drawing.

 “But isn’t it too striking? I don’t think Jiang Cheng is going to like it.”

 “Wei Ying.”

 He takes Wei Ying’s wrist, bringing it away from his face, where he was chewing on his nailbeds. Sitting side by side without a space between them, he lowered their hands to their laps and his hold moved to keep his palm against Wei Ying’s. It’s a lax hold, unambitious, just sharing warmth.

 “You can be a hero too.”

 His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. He holds Lan Zhan’s gaze for long seconds (maybe two) before he bites his lip, huffs a repressed laughter, and lets his head fall on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

 “Lan Zhan,” he says it like a whine, like a plea, and he feels his fingers intertwine with his, the connection still comfortable, still known, still familiar.

 “This whole project is yours,” Lan Zhan speaks into his hair. “You should be able to do what you want.”

 Wei Ying snorts.

 “Isn’t that vain?”

 “...You’re not exactly humble.”

 He lifts his head from his shoulder and bumps into him with a pointed, “Hey.” Lan Zhan chuckles, almost without sound, and pats the hand that’s still holding his.

 They look back at the design. Lan Zhan can already envision the fabrics he’s going to use, the details that he wants to add, and he already regrets saying that both Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng’s characters are going to dress the same.

 Wei Ying sighs. “You spoil me with your designs, Lan Zhan.”

 And he can’t really deny that.

 ***

 It’s as difficult to keep Wei Ying focused on his studies as it is for Lan Zhan to not drop his books and go to his workshop to sew Wei Ying’s costume. Even though exams are merely weeks away, Lan Zhan still finds some time to secretly buy all of the material he needs while Wei Ying tries to keep up with his own study group. And it proves to be a wise decision because Wei Ying doesn’t last two days with his classmates before he shows up at Lan Zhan’s flat with thick books recently checked out from the library and teary eyes.

 “I hate studying,” he dramatically announces as he flops down face-first on the couch. Lan Zhan knows it’s true as much as he knows that Wei Ying actually really enjoys being practical.

 He opens Wei Ying’s bag and puts his books on the low table. “Why are you even taking classic literature?”

 “It’s inspiring,” Wei Ying says, eyes closed and voice muffled by the leather of the couch. “It’s food for the soul. It’s pretty like you.”

 Lan Zhan halts his movements, not daring to turn or do anything else; one hand lies atop Wei Ying’s bag and another on the advanced physics book he last set down.

 Wei Ying is by his side before he blinks twice, putting his bag away and apparently trying to choose which of the books he wants to open, but too rushed and flushed to be doing much thinking at all.

 “You,” Lan Zhan begins, swallows, inhales and tries again. “Do you want me to help?”

 Wei Ying’s head snaps in his direction. With big eyes and his lower lip hidden under his upper lip, he just nods, and Lan Zhan either saves or dooms them both as he sets all books aside and puts the Advanced Physics book in front of them.

 “Explain.”

 Flipping the pages to the subject that would be covered in his exams, Wei Ying takes out his notebook, and he explains.

 ***

 The end of the year is marked by heavy snowfall, the kind that has Wei Ying’s teeth clattering together outside, even if he’s covered in layers that are short from hindering his mobility and wearing a scarf so wound around his head that only his eyes peak out between the wool. It’s the only time of the year that Lan Zhan feels bad for his staying in Gusu, as if the city is like a stern parent testing the object of his affections and Wei Ying barely passes, or maybe bypasses it, by sticking close to Lan Zhan even when they’re indoors. He indulges in their practiced proximity, and if his body yearns for more, he sternly shuts it down, unable to sacrifice all the years of accumulated mutual trust for the gamble of a confession.

 As always, however, he’s saved from the trap of his feelings by Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng’s end of the year trip to Yunmeng. And on cue, he leaves his own flat to spend the turn of the year with his uncle and brother at the Lan estate, set in the part of the city where the hills are high enough to almost sit among the clouds.

 Between hot tea brewed to perfection by his brother, television cooking programs that his uncle has become oddly fond of in the past year, and the occasional reading (both required and unrequired for his studies), Lan Zhans works on Wei Ying’s costume in the studio his brother arranged for him when he first enrolled in Wei Ying’s drama club.

 “Did you make this jinbu, A-Zhan?” Brother Huan asks when he brings him tea and biscuits, picking up the accessory with a purple tassel, light and dark purple beads and a white lotus that could pass as jade. At his younger brother’s nod, Lan Huan’s smile is so delighted that Lan Zhan has to look away. “It’s beautiful work, A-Zhan. You could really make a profession out of it.”

 “Brother, it’s just...”

 He trails off as his brother chuckles and gently places the jinbu back down.

 “I know. It’s just for Wei Ying, isn’t it?”

 Lan Zhan leans even further down into the fabric he’s working on, pretending to check something in the sewing machine.

 “It’s just a hobby,” he admits instead. Lan Huan doesn’t discredit him, patting his head like he’s still a child, and Lan Zhan doesn’t have it in him to dislike the touch.

 “Just remember that if you ever question the serious profession you’re seeking, A-Zhan, the answer always lies closer than you think.”

 The older Lan Sibling tilts his head, taking in all of his little brother’s work laid out in the space of his studio. He looks at the design Lan Zhan is trying to bring to life and then at all the materials on the station, and an imperceptible frown touches his face, like a ripple on calm waters.

 “This fabric...”

 Lan Zhan sighs, knowing exactly what fabric he’s questioning, without even having to try and see it in his brother’s hands.

 “I know. I couldn’t find the one I wanted in time.”

 He works the machine to keep the frustration away, so he doesn’t notice his brother leaving with the offending fabric, only to return, hours later, with such a fine material that Lan Zhan breaks into a bright, grateful smile. During dinner, even uncle, so often taciturn, makes the table inviting with an amicable mood, the three of them enjoying a meal that their caretaker made with his own hands, the elder rambling on and on about every detail of the cooking process while his nephews pay dutiful attention and encourage the little passion that seemed to burn quietly in the heart of every Lan.

 ***

 Wei Ying’s praise for Lan Zhan’s work was ever grandiose, and any other man could let it get to his head like an invincibility potion. Lan Zhan, however, is a simple man, and only his heart swells with contentment at every exaggerated compliment that falls out of that beloved mouth.

 When Lan Zhan shows him the finished the prototype costume for his twin pride character, however, Wei Ying seems to be, maybe for the first time since they started collaborating, at a loss for words.

 “It’s so...” He starts, touching the rich purple fabric with hesitant fingertips. Lan Zhan knows it’s more than their budget, and that they don’t even have a proper story yet, just the core concepts that they came up with together. But Wei Ying had been so engaged, so inspired, and though he’s usually that way when he’s working with Nie Huaisang, it’s the first time he asks Lan Zhan to create a character with him. So he was impulsive. It’s not a crime. “Lan Zhan, it’s...”

 Wei Ying brings the costume to his face, rubbing it against his cheek, and the pleased hum he lets out makes Lan Zhan’s breath cease for a couple of seconds.

 “Make-up test?” Lan Zhan offers, a little weakly, a little shy, but Wei Ying practically jumps in place at the thought, electrified with excitement.

 “Make-up test!” He announces before he runs to the guest bedroom in wide steps and Lan Zhan, left with unwelcome nerves, nervously puts Wei Ying’s backpack away on the couch from where he had unceremoniously dropped it on the floor.

 When Wei Ying comes out of the bedroom, Lan Zhan was thinking about making tea after he had paced from the living room to his own bedroom, then to the kitchen to drink some water, to the window to check the weather, until he finally stopped to sit on the couch, where Wei Ying finds him. His best friend comes out of the bedroom in the costume Lan Zhan designed for him (just for him, he decides right there, he’ll simply have to rethink how to proceed with Jiang Cheng), sets a hairbrush, a red ribbon, and a big pouch on the low table, before twirling around himself.

 “So? What do you think?”

 Wei Ying had always favored black and red. They weren’t the sole colors he used, and Lan Zhan particularly liked when he wore white, the color brightening up his features like a beacon, but Lan Zhan is sure he had never worn something like the bright purple of the robes Lan Zhan made for him. When he twirls, the light plays tricks on the fabric, like a multi-colored bouquet of hydrangeas glistening after a rainshower. The inner robes are a simple black, but the outer jacket is more fascinating still, of a dark purple, almost black, iridescent, see-through fabric that he knows his brother bought from someplace outside of Gusu. Lanling, he believes. On the back, he embroidered a lotus motif with nine petals, the symbol of Wei Ying’s royalty.

 “I love it so much,” Wei Ying says, without waiting for his response, unknowingly almost sending Lan Zhan into cardiac arrest. His hands keep petting down on the costume, and he giggles when he touches the jinbu that jingles with a small bell that Lan Zhan added as a last-minute detail. “Lan Zhan, I can’t believe you made this. We haven’t even finished creating Wuxian, and it’s really...” He laughs, somewhat strained, covering his face with his hands, before dropping on the couch beside Lan Zhan. “How am I supposed to kill him now?”

 Lan Zhan immediately snaps out of his reverie, blinking rapidly.

 “Kill?”

 Wei Ying sighs, letting his hands drop and leaning his head against the couch backrest.

 “Yeah. I was thinking that Wuxian would sacrifice himself to save Jiang Cheng and the kingdom. Like, he runs out of good ideas in a crisis but the kingdom and his family are bigger than he is, so he makes his decision. The kingdom sings songs about him after he dies, and he’s widely recognized as an important member of the royal family.”

 Lan Zhan can read too much between the lines of that script, and the fact that Wei Ying has come to the conclusion that his death, however metaphorical, is the answer, sits heavy on his stomach.

 “Wei Ying,” he calls, a bit too sternly, perhaps, as Wei Ying looks up from fiddling with his jinbu like a child ready to be scolded. “Wei Ying, you can’t kill him,” he says, more softly. “You can’t kill the adopted son in front of an audience of foster kids. What kind of message would we be sending them?”

 “I know,” he whines. “But isn’t it heroic?”

 “Death is just death.” He takes Wei Ying’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Even in fiction. The ones that stay behind are never happy to part with a loved one.” Wei Ying turns his hand in Lan Zhan’s grasp so they’re palm to palm again, puzzle pieces fitting together. Lan Zhan inches closer, brings their clasped hands to his chest, and firmly says, “We’re not killing Wuxian.”

 Wei Ying’s laugh is just a huff of air, and he can’t hide his tears when he wipes them away from the corners of his eyes.

 “Okay. Wuxian lives in the end.”

 Lan Zhan nods, letting their hands fall between them, but not letting go. The silence that follows Wei Ying’s sniffles is not uncomfortable, but there’s something in the space between them, in the way Wei Ying is wearing that beautiful purple that Lan Zhan made for him, in the way Wei Ying keeps looking at his face, that Lan Zhan feels is both thick and fragile like glass. Or maybe he’s a coward, just a coward in the end, consumed by his desire to hold that man and touch him and kiss him, but ultimately defeated by the overbearing affection that wants him to make sure he never leaves Wei Ying, never lets him think he has to sacrifice himself for anyone, when he’s the brightest star in everyone’s lives.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls, and he seems to be closer than he was just a moment ago, the tears gone, leaving only a shine in his eyes in their wake. “Aren’t you going to finish our make-up test?”

 At Lan Zhan’s nod, Wei Ying smiles his wide, crescent moon smile and hops to the floor, handing Lan Zhan the hairbrush from over his shoulder. Lan Zhan, who has experience at both being a younger brother who played with his elder brother and a long-time drama club member, brushes Wei Ying’s hair without hesitation or clumsiness. Given the sheer volume of hair that Wei Ying possesses, there’s no way that the bun can be secured for long with just the ribbon, but Lan Zhan doesn’t want to get up to get any pins, so he just works with what he’s given, tying a pretty bow near Wei Ying’s nape, the ends of the ribbon still falling long, down his back. He had been right. The red looks almost mystical against the purple.

 “So, since the royal color is purple, should my make-up be purple too?”

 Lan Zhan climbs down from the couch, kneeling beside the other, and shakes his head. He takes the pouch from Wei Ying (that he’s sure is Mo Xuanyu’s, when did Wei Ying even take it?) and pulls a neutral-colored palette and a brush.

 “The clothes are already flashy enough, so we’re only framing your face,” Lan Zhan explains, although he’s more versed in colors than in make-up specifically, but it’s a test. If Mo Xuanyu has any better ideas once the story is pitched to the group, then he’s free to use them. Right then, Lan Zhan stands on his knees for a better angle to paint Wei Ying’s eyeshadow an earthy, reddish brown. With a thin, black pencil, he traces the line along his lashes in a much finer touch than the one he used for the Yiling Patriarch, just so the audience knows that his eyes are just as important as his clothes, that his person is just as big as his position.

 For his lips, he chooses a similarly neutral, peachy shade, just so he doesn’t look pale under the stage light, so his smiles can reach even the chairs in the furthest rows. The traditional lipstick makes less of a mess than the glossy, liquid red one he used before, but still the corners... No matter how careful Lan Zhan is, he still misses his mark when he gets to the corners. So he reaches out, just as he did then, to wipe the excess at the corner of Wei Ying’s lips with his thumb, and it’s so much easier this time.

 So much easier, and still... He runs his thumb along the lines of Wei Ying’s lower lip, as if there’s something there to correct, but there’s nothing, just his lips, parted and colored and waiting. Just his lips and that birthmark underneath, distracting, beckoning, a natural wonder that Lan Zhan can’t ignore, he looks, and he touches, and he’s lost, dazed again.

 Those lips open, form the syllables of his name.

 He looks up, wide-eyed, at a Wei Ying that is closely watching him. Eyes as round and attentive as they always were.

 “Lan Zhan. Do you want to kiss me?”

 He swallows and tries to look down, but Wei Ying takes his face between both of his hands and doesn’t let him.

 “Do you?” He repeats, and because he cannot lie, because he especially cannot lie to Wei Ying, he nods, and he closes his eyes, and he waits for his best friend’s judgment.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls again, and Lan Zhan can hear him shift his position. “Lan Zhan, look at me.”

 He opens his eyes and he does. Wei Ying is at his eye level, standing on his knees as well. Wei Ying, always so expressive, doesn’t look anything like Lan Zhan had feared; he looks kind and patient and good. Lan Zhan’s hands, without him even noticing it, have moved to hold Wei Ying’s wrists.

 “Lan Zhan,” he calls, and in Lan Zhan’s mind, it could be the last time. But it sounds just as melodious, just as full of Wei Ying’s sincerity as it always did. “Can I kiss you?”

 All of his thought processes, all of his observations trail off then. Wei Ying looks a little flushed, though Lan Zhan didn’t apply any make-up to his cheeks. And his mouth, his beautiful, glistening mouth, displays a half-smile. Expectant. A little scared.

 Once Lan Zhan nods, everything seems to resume at a much faster pace, as if they stepped too hard on the gas pedal and their car flew off the road with a loud screech. Wei Ying exhales before their lips meet, as if meeting two necessities at once. He throws his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and pulls, his lips opening and closing around the other’s as many times as he can before he needs to breathe again. And then breaks away just to catch his breath before he’s lounging forward again, forcing Lan Zhan into a sitting position so he can climb on his lap and rob him of all coherent thought. Lan Zhan circles his arms around his middle, underneath the outer jacket, securing Wei Ying flush against him. The kiss is messy, wet, open-mouthed and inexperienced, Lan Zhan just following Wei Ying’s lead, which isn’t much of a lead, as Wei Ying whimpers between touches. The sound is enough to make Lan Zhan lose the last grasp he had on control, and that sends him to fall backwards, all the way back where he has no support, and they only have a second to disconnect their mouths before Lan Zhan’s head hits the hard floor.

 “Oh my God, are you okay?!”

 Lan Zhan winces, seeing stars in front of his eyes, and Wei Ying is quick to pull him back to an upright position, helping him lean his back against the couch before climbing back on his lap.

 “Lan Zhan, does it hurt too bad? Is it bleeding? Do you have a concussion? We should go to the—”

 “I’m all right,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. Wei Ying touches the back of his head and he winces, but he reassures him again. “It’s okay. It’s just a bump.”

 Wei Ying pats his hair into place after the mess that his hands made.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t be.”

 Wei Ying’s lipstick is smeared all around his plump mouth (from kissing; from kissing him), and Lan Zhan be damned, he didn’t think Wei Ying could look more attractive and then he looks like that. It’d be unfair if Wei Ying wasn’t following a similar train of thought, thumbs touching around Lan Zhan’s mouth in a weak effort to wipe away the lipstick there. And because he wasn’t really trying, he just kisses him again, slow, unhurried, almost chaste, a kiss that lasts long, a whole time unit in its own.

 His hair is down, red ribbon lying somewhere on the floor. Lan Zhan pushes it away from his face so he can take a good look at him, his best friend, brilliant and full of life and beautiful around him, in his embrace, his cheeks flushing darker the longer he observes him, until Wei Ying throws his arms around him again and hides his face on his neck.

 “I have a confession to make.”

 Lan Zhan hums, his hand moving up and down Wei Ying’s back.

 “I didn’t really plan on writing a play with Wuxian... I created him as a way to spend time with you.”

 When Wei Ying takes a deep breath, Lan Zhan can feel it, against his chest, on his neck, the exhale making him shiver.

 “After our last performance, I— well, we never really...”

 Wei Ying sighs, and Lan Zhan’s hand moves to his hair, petting, fond. He barely ever allowed himself to think of touching Wei Ying, yet it feels like the right thing to do, a natural step from all the hand holding and working in each other’s personal spaces. And it’s just what he can do to tell Wei Ying to go on, that he’s there, listening, although he’s not done collecting all of the fragments of his own confession, shattered in the car crash of a kiss long suffered.

 “I’ve always really admired you, Lan Zhan. Your talent, your imagination, everything you do is so good. I wanted to make something with you, to spend all of my time with you, to create something out of nothing that was ours.”

 Lan Zhan can feel Wei Ying raising his head, his chin resting on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

 “You see, Lan Zhan, I’m really selfish. I’ve had a crush on you since I first laid eyes on you when we were fifteen but now I really wanted all of your attention. The way you looked at me that day, I... You don’t have any idea what you do to me.”

 Wei Ying tries to hide again, but Lan Zhan holds his shoulders, pulls him back to look at him. His mouth is still a mess of lipstick, but his eyes are wide, exposed. Lan Zhan tries to wipe the lipstick away, just to save Wei Ying some grace, because the weight of his their attraction pulling them together was nothing compared to the weight of the heart against one’s palms.

 “I’ve always admired you.” Lan Zhan echoes, eyes still focused on those lips, still trying to clean up their mess.  “Your talent, your imagination, and everything you do. I want to spend all my time with you, and create things with you, things that everybody will look and know it’s ours.”

 His hand, on Wei Ying’s face, moves to cup his cheek; his gaze moves up, without hesitation, because being there with Wei Ying when he falls is all he’s ever done, when people laughed at their plays, when their plans were foiled, when their ideas went nowhere. They’d come together, the two of them, and rise the whole group back up, one more time.

 “I really like you, Wei Ying. I’ve liked you for a long time now.”

 How could he be pretty even when he cries?

 “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 “You’re my best friend. The only one in this lifetime.”

 It’s only when Wei Ying touches his cheeks that he realizes he’s crying too.

 “You’re my best friend too, Lan Zhan. And I really, really like you back.”

 The kiss they share then is somewhere in-between the other two. It’s tender like a first kiss between their teenage selves, pecks that follow one after the other and another again, followed by kisses on each other’s cheeks, on noses and foreheads, marked with promise and lipstick. And when they finally regain their breath from their confessions, from their laughter, it’s open-mouthed and eager, ready to discover each other’s taste, and the best angles for their tongues to come together, to elicit delicious sounds from their throats.

 Wei Ying finds as much delight in delicately peeling the clothes Lan Zhan made for him open as he did in putting them on. And the view is almost too much for the designer, who both marvels and suffers at all the layers of his creation, sprawled underneath Wei Ying, still so beautiful against his skin, but ultimately forgotten.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan.”

 It’s a snowy night. Cold and white and long, sure to trap them inside when the morning comes.

 The answer to Wei Ying’s sensibilities, in the end, turned out to be simple; cuddle up as close as he can to his boyfriend, underneath thick and fluffy blankets.

 “Mn?”

 “I thought up a nicer end for Wuxian.”

 Lan Zhan doesn’t bother to open his eyes in the dark. He just turns his head to touch Wei Ying’s, his nose cold on the other’s forehead.

 “In the end he sacrifices himself for the kingdom but he doesn’t die. He ends up powerless but he meets someone who takes care of him regardless of the fact that he’s a royal.”

 Wei Ying plays with the collar of his pajamas and Lan Zhan could burst with contentment, but he only smiles against Wei Ying’s skin.

 “So when Wanyin finally finds Wuxian again, a long time later, Wuxian has become wiser because he realizes true strength doesn’t come from battles or sacrifices, but human connection. So he promises to be Wanyin’s adviser because he loves and supports him, but he’s not going back to the palace, he’s staying with Wangji.”

 “Wangji?”

 Wei Ying hums. Lan Zhan likes that ending. It’s a good message for the kids, to follow your heart rather than a life mission.

 It takes his sleepy mind a few seconds to remember his brother’s words. He’s going to like Wei Ying’s play, very much so.

 “Lan Zhan?”

 “Mn?”

 “Will you be my Wangji?”

 He kisses Wei Ying’s forehead and places his hand against the hand that lies on his chest, next to his heart.

 “Mn. I will be Wei Ying’s commoner wife.”

 Wei Ying snorts before nuzzling his shoulder.

 “I haven’t decided if he’s going to be a commoner yet. But you’re going to wear blue. Blue and white, like Gusu’s clear skies.”

 Lan Zhan doesn’t comment on how Wei Ying didn’t deny being his partner in the play, even if they had just confessed to liking each other. There’s still so much more to be said, and Lan Zhan loves the anticipation, will dream about them with Wei Ying in his arms all night, and all of the next day, too.

 “I thought you didn’t like Gusu that much.”

 “Of course I like Gusu. All of my memories with you are here.”

 Lan Zhan turns to his side, hugs Wei Ying tight against his chest, making him laugh. He kisses him all over his face before meeting his lips, then covers him up to his chin to protect him from the cold, and together, they fall asleep, the future holding a different shape in their creative, clasped hands.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Since no one cares about Alola I can therefore say what I want.

Team Rocket's Pokémon are all worthless toss. That's such a surprise from this oafish writing team.

Remember when Jessie and James had two each, to offer variety? Permitting them even that is too much focus nowadays.

We don't what anything interesting going on, thank you. Repetition is what we and they deserve.

Arbok, Weezing, Lickitung and Victreebel are spinning in their graves.

Stufful was missing for three years and she displayed not the slightest pang of concern until its belated invention. Given her temper she ought to have torn the island apart searching for her baby, but no.

Not bothered about Bewear. It shouldn't really be in this list as it didn't belong to them, although catching has no value anymore.

A bit thick are we? Or conforming to the usual parental standards?

Well, she's sufficiently neglectful that she let it out of her sight long enough for it to be crushed under a tree, then was too idle to come to the rescue. In consequence he was obliged to wait days until one of Lusamine's lackeys arrived.

She's 'Mama Bear' though, isn't she?

It's based on a red panda, is partly the colour of a black bear and as strong as a grizzly, but all that is a mere cover for its true nature as a Bear-Face Ham.

The modern pretence is that everyone's a vegetarian (are they balls), and Ursa Major lives on fruit, not, you know, flesh.

Just because it there's no hibernating in the tropics doesn't mean it can get by without a salmon now and again.

The name is stupid, since a red panda is not a bear. A play on words isn't clever if based on what it isn't.

They should've called her 'Pandamonia', or 'Pandour', which is a brutal soldier.

It is at least redeemed by battering the klepto cockroach into the next dimension. Good on 'er.

Mind you, this is Alola, a cesspit of incest, so it's probably some sick arrangement, like Bewear being slipped the length by that previously unmentioned Oakie-Dokie clone.

He's the spit of Jimmy Savile, thus every depravity is on the table.

Where's Stufful's dad? He buggered off too?

What kind of name is 'Stufful'? What's it made from, 'stifle' and 'suffocation'? 'Stuffed'?

Thanks for that. Whenever I see its ovine face I'm reminded of taxidermy.

Were Ursa Minor and Bewear described as mother and son, or were they 'friends'?

A series of games involving breeding and the 'anime' is too squeamish to even imply animals live in families.

I don't care either way for Stufful, but I'd like it better if its mouth wasn't a camel toe.

I understand it's a sea creature, and the contents of the oceans are their own brand of peculiarity, but looks like a limbless, undead spaniel plagued with extra teats. Its 'ears' resemble distended mammeries.

Hey, remember that interesting, original Pokémon James had called Victreebel? Let's do it again! And again! AND AGAIN!

Victreebel is a venus fly trap: an anomaly in nature as a carnivorous plant. It makes sense that the Pokémon version would be a bit more full-on in catching a meal.

New law: Team Rocket are required to collect monsters as ugly as themselves.

Hurting James was its personality quirk, particularly to it, fitting its nature, its 'thing'. It was never meant as a template for most of what he caught in the future.

Something is funny if it happens once, and can be now and again if done with a least a little flair.

Nothing repeated as a constant leaden thud is remotely amusing, but this is an unknown fact to Nintendo bone heads. They think certain events are utterly hilarious in themselves and require no finesse in application.

They have a checklist of moments obligatory to each episode, which explains the plodding lifelessness. Tick 'em off to keep the fans from being ticked off. All we supposedly care about is each gong struck, not how we got there.

At least Victreebel used to vary its behaviour:

Occasionally it even did as told without any chomping preamble.

It didn't do the exact same action every single time it was involved!

Mostly it swallowed James.

How long was it once Victreebel was chucked out on its leafy arse before Cacnea arrived?

Oh look, it's a Grass Pokémon and attacks James!

Sometimes it ate Jessie.

Carnivine got in on the action before Cacnea's run was even up: kick 'em when they're down why don't yer?

Oh look, it's a Grass Pokémon and attacks James!

Now we have Mareanie. Wasn't there a few in between? No, shush, they don't exist anymore.

Every bloody time it came out, it turned round and punctured him.

Every bloody time.

Ah, it's not a Grass Pokémon. That makes it totally new!

Oh yes, it's the complete opposite of Victreebel. It's Poison instead. Not like it at all.

Every bloody time it came out, it'd gnaw his head off.

Every bloody time.

That's endearing.

Oh but it is! It's just showing him love!

As that makes it alright!

If a muscular man squeezed his girlfriend so tightly he cracked her ribs, is that 'sweet' because he 'meant well' but his feelings overwhelmed him? Or is it A.B.H.?

Every bloody time it comes out, it injects James's head with toxin until it swells up into purple pustule of disease.

Every bloody time.

I never took Victreebel's assault as affection. To me they were real attempts to devour James, especially with the accompanying frenzied screech. Interpreting that as a positive emotion is bizarre to me.

At soon as James found it wedged in a Breeding Centre cage and opened the door it grabbed him, which appeared to be Victreebel lashing out in anger for what'd happened in the intervening period.

What Mareanie does is worse than the other three put together. At least they delivered mere bite marks or pinpricks, but it infects James!

Whole episodes of this programme have involved a Pokémon falling foul of Poison Powder and being on the verge of death, with all done to preserve it until Ash hunted down the cure, but now it's a big laugh, apparently.

Not one character ever has the wits about them to carry an Antidote, otherwise the writers wouldn't be able to fall back on the tired old race-against-time scenario, which is no such thing as we know they won't die.

Is it likely that James is always going to end up picking a violent Pokémon, of all the individuals of a race, of all the lifeforms in the universe?

Aren't his allowed to come with their own personality, or is there a set pattern they must follow, and when caught they absorb it, for fear they might be memorable?

Mind you, it's interesting the reactions these abuses provoke:

Victreebel eats James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Cacnea impales James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Carnivine chews James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Mareanie poisons James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Meowth claws James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Jessie beats James: Aw, it's so kyewt!

Jessibelle whips James: EEVUL BITCH!!!

Mimikyu should be opposed for breaking it's own world.

To us, Pikachu is the most famous Pokémon, belonging to Ash, the protagonist, and the franchise's mascot.

To them, Pikachu is just another middling Pokémon hundreds of young Trainers catch, and holds no greater value.

It's blatantly a reference to Pikachu's real-life status, acknowledging itself as fiction. No Pokémon would hold the same significance for this design to work but him.

Otherwise why would Mimikyu, when it has the choice of every Pokémon that exists, and, if meant to be a believable world, every Pokémon we don't know exists, choose Pikachu to ape? Why wouldn't it pick a Legendary?

Alola Pikachu is looking off colour.

It's not even this specific Mimikyu, it's the entire species!

What, they work to a hive mind, incapable of individual tastes and opinions?

Do they all hate Pikachu too, even though the entire mouse population of Alola has been rounded up by that loon and trapped in a valley, or were we lumbered with the lone demented obsessive with a severe complex?

Is it well jel that Pikachu's a real one, whereas it can only manage to knock up a bog-standard costume with a face daubed by a chimp paralytic from scrumpy?

Well stop imitating it then! Invent your own design!

Oh come on. The animators can't even do that, hence its creation. You can hardly expect it to display inspiration if born from its absence.

I wonder if it hates Raichu. And Pichu. And Plusle and Minun. And the rest of the Pikachu derivatives, although it is one.

(As an aside, I don't know why Raichu, Marowak and Exeggutor were redrawn for this era, but not Pikachu, Cubone and Exeggcute. Why does the sweaty climate affect only evolutions?) 

Here's an idea: make Shiny Mimikyu have a different get up, not colour.

You can have that free, Game Freak. I'm too lenient with yer.

Presumably, Mimikyu hatches (already dead?) in all its eye-bleeding nastiness, and instinctively reaches for the discarded yellow bedsheet and pack of crayons that just so happens to be nearby, and the scissors to make the peep holes.

Them inbreds know how to litter.

Flippers?

Nah, it's probably hooks.

How is it born aware of a Pikachu's face, and why is it compelled to copy them?

Knowledge of his own ugliness is innate, thus he must cover his nakedness before it lays waste to the forest inhabitants.

Yet if you breed 'em, it emerges wearing it, like the cloth formed from left-over albumen and stained with yolk!

What's it reaching with? Paws?

Mittens?

Oh, and there was a deceased specimen in the series, so it's either a ghost, and nothing but bedsheet, or a zombie, and it's repulsive carcass has upped the ante by putrifying.

Even its name doesn't fit. Apart from the unsightly spelling, what's 'Mimikyu' about? It's not mimicking me.

Mimikyu? It should be Mimikchu!

And you know what? Even Nintendo agree their own inventions aren't good enough, because they made return almost impossible.

They hate these more than they do even the pre-Unova Pokémon, most of whom were condemned to a dark existence within the iron corridors of H.Q. and haven't been seen since.

• Growlie is such a beloved figure in James's life he's been involved all of twice.

• Dustox got pensioned off.

• James was practically bullied into gifting Cacnea to that cloying bitch Gardenia.

• Whilst he still tecnically owns Chimecho, it's as lost to him as any of them.

Remember Seviper, Yanmega, Carnivine and Mime Junior?

Hell, remember Woobat, Yamask, Frillish and Amoonguss?

Or Gourgeist and Inkay?

Of course, since the makers appear to have the Reverse-Midas Touch, Team Rocket still took that useless, wincing lump Wobbuffet to Galar instead of dumping it over the sea. Apparently we're stuck with it forever.

Arbok, Lickitung, Weezing and Victreebel got shafted, but THAT survives?

Yes? That's more the writers do. In current canon these Pokémon never lived at all. Dead memories in the haze.

[pellicano-sanguino]

Now that Kurenai Yuzuru's taidan is drawing closer, I wanted to write something short about some of the roles she's done that I have fond memories of.

These are mostly from Reon's era, since most of my Hoshigumi shows are from that time. I need to see more shows from Kurenai's own top star run.

Mercutio from Romeo&Juliette 2010

This was the first zuka show I saw, and still my favourite show to this day. I could go into all the details about how I love this musical, but now I'm just going to mention the casting. It was perfect. Everyone got a role that fit their acting style perfectly. Kurenai was a natural Mercutio, the best one I've ever seen. She nailed Merkku's immaturity, playfulness and – most importantly in my opinion – his recklessness.

Memorable scenes are Mercutio's song number when he tempts his Montague buddies to go with him to crash the Capulet's party, him and the boys bullying Nurse, confronting Romeo after hearing the news about his wedding (I was quite shocked to see Mercutio threaten Romeo with honor violence, claiming he's going to slit his throat if he won't give up Juliette) and the fight scene followed by Mercutio's death including a final song of ”goodbye friends and PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES!”

I admit, I don't usually care for it when zuka gives a dying character one final song that they sing in weak, slow voice, milking the tragedy for all the drama its worth. It often fails to be sad and just feels cheesy and soap operaish. But I found the song of dying Mercutio very touching, when I saw the scene for the first time I cried real tears. Despite the language barrier, Kurenai managed to reach to me with her voice and her acting and make me shed tears for Mercutio's death.

Sid from Officer and Gentleman

Officer and Gentleman isn't the kind of movie I'd thought would get a zuka adaptation and yet it exists. Zuka is very clearly targeted for women and this movie is more for the male audience. I know it has a romance and is therefore regarded as a love story but in my opinion this flick is more like a coming-of-age story about the character growth the male lead goes through (also, it oozes toxic masculinity, a thing more common in films for men). Anyway, the zuka version is actually a pretty good show. Ouki Kaname totally steals every scene she's in. But today I'm here to talk about Kurenai.

Kurenai is probably best known for her talent in comedy. Sometimes I've heard people say that's the only kind of shows she should do and that always made me sad, because Kurenai isn't a one trick pony trapped to do only one character type. I have been very impressed at her talent in playing sensitive men. Many otokoyaku roles rely on strong and cool male image, but Kurenai sometimes gets roles that let her show emotions, the men she plays are allowed to be vulnerable. Sid is one of these. Sid is young and a bit naive and makes stupid decisions, but when he thinks he's done a mistake, he is ready to take responsibility of it. The scene where he goes to propose Lynette breaks my heart every time. That look on his face when he finds out he's been lied to, it just hits me right in the feels. There is something so naturally charming and lovable in Kurenai that seeing her characters get hurt makes me feel awful. Like, no, don't do this to her!

Karenin from Anna Karenina

I have not read this book, but its one of my mother's favourites, so we watched this show together and she pointed me all the things that she thought zuka had adapted well and the parts that they had changed. She was especially impressed with Kurenai's Karenin. According to my mother, the character of Karenin is often done quite poorly in other adaptations of the book, he is often portrayed as just a onesided, simple man who's a little dumb and doesn't have much depth of character. Much like Sid, Kurenai's Karenin is allowed to show his emotions and not be just a boring, stoic figure who reacts to his wife's affair with mild disinterest. There is kindness in Karenin, it's not always easy to see, but it's there. He lost his own parents and a brother that was dear to him, and because he remembers how horrible it is to be alone and lose your family, he adopts Anna's and Vronsky's child, not wanting her to be left alone.

Antonio from Tale of Coimbra

I have opinions concerning this show. Namely, I think it misses a golden opportunity to put the zuka trope of reunion of lovers in the afterlife to proper use. Big part of the Coimbra legend are the coffins of Pedro and Inez being placed so that when they rise in Doomsday, the first thing they see is each others' faces. And zuka just had to go and twist the story so that Inez doesn't die (and they don't even get a happy ending despite that! Poor Pedro, he just can't win.). Also, very, very disappointed at the lack of Corpse Queen and tearing out assassin-Makaze's heart with a line ”You broke my heart, therefore you have none!”

Ahem. Sorry about the rant. Anyway, Kurenai is in this musical. He plays a guy named Antonio, who is...   umm... I think a pirate or a robber or something along those lines. The group of robbers/pirates gets made into scapegoats for Inez's murder, and Pedro, Pimenta, assassin-Makaze and some soldiers mercilessly slaughter them all. Kurenai's role gets very little stage time, but I wanted to mention this role, because I was very impressed with her stage swordplay skills. I don't know if I should credit the director for this, or if Kurenai did some research of her own, but her legwork is strong and sometimes I can even identify the poses she makes as part of real swordplay moves.

Warrior seeking to fight with Reon, from Takarazuka Floral Dance Scrolls

This is my favourite nihonmono revue. The music, the dancing and the costumes are all great. In one of the numbers Kurenai plays a warrior who doesn't get along with another warrior, played by Reon. I don't know what their beef is about, Kurenai just hates Reon's guts and sends ninjas to ambush him when he's spending time flirting with local ladies. Reon being Reon, he defeats all the ninjas and makes a daring escape with courtesan-Nene. They are heading towards a river, intending to ride a boat to safety, but by the riverside Kurenai confronts them. Holding his sword he opens his arms like inviting Reon for a hug. Come at me bro! And so they fight, doing the samurai slash thing where time freezes after they've struck at each other and then the one who lost slowly falls. The one who falls is Kurenai, and Reon and Nene proceed to their romantic boatride.

This number has left an impression on me, because I think the nihonmono look suits Kurenai really well. She made a very handsome and cool-looking warrior.

Shibata Rihito from Mei-chan's Butler

Takarazuka and shoujo manga have walked hand in hand since the days of BeruBara Boom and even before, inspiring each other. Every now and then zuka does a show based on a manga. This one, unfortunately, is based on a manga I have never read and therefore I had no idea what was going on during most of this musical. But I still found it rather entertaining (the prop work sure was something different, with weird video projections, shadow theater and parachuting puppets). I admit, the many colourful side characters steal the show from Kurenai quite often, being wilder and weirder than her character is. I will have to give special mention to Makaze's evil butler, I love it when Makaze plays villains. But at the end, this is Kurenai's show. She was a very dashing butler.  

Memorable scenes include a weird, artsy, dream-like interpretive dance scene where the shadow theater is put to good use for * symbolism *.

 Because I haven't read the manga, I have no idea what is going on here. My bet is on drugs.

Also among the memorable scenes is the fencing. I still think Kurenai is pretty good with a sword.

I need to come up with name for this trope, where the opponents lock their swords for a while to glare at each other and chat.

Bourguignon from Second Fortuitous Meeting

Many zuka comedies are wasted on me because so many of the jokes are language based and I still don't understand much Japanese. But this one I liked very much. Admittedly, I got to read a translation once, so this time I got the jokes, but even ignoring the spoken jokes, it's just a really fun show. Every character was fantastic, Kurenai's role as a manservant forced to fake being his own master included. Her talent in comedy is very strong, she masters small things like the tone of her voice, the expressions of her face and simple bodylanguage and makes her character absolutely hilarious. I have noticed  that one character pair zuka shows tend to have is pairing a cool and serious master with a sassy, loud, no-filter-between-brains-and-mouth servant, who works as a comedic relief softening the seriousness of their master. In a show like Second Fortuitous Meeting, where everyone is sassy, loud and has no filter between brains and mouth, Kurenai needs to tone her comedy up quite a bit so that Bourguignon will appear even funnier than his master.

Most memorable scene is Bourguignon sitting down in protest like a misbehaving infant when Dorante demands they leave.

This show got a sequel. It was just as fun as the first one, even though this time I had no translation and so had very little clue what was going on. Something involving a pumpkin thief.

Beniko and Reon's father from REON!!

Otokoyaku in drag for comedy reasons is quite a common thing in zuka, and usually I find it as amusing as real men in drag (in other words, not very). But I adore Beniko. The reason why her comedy works is that the joke isn't just putting otokoyaku in drag, Beniko is a carefully designed sketch character. Her costume, her curls that she constantly keeps shoving back over her shoulders, the way she speaks (this has to be some sort of dialect, I swear), she is just incredibly funny. I don't think I can properly explain why I find her so amusing, after all I don't even understand what she says. There's just something about Beniko that always makes me smile.

There was also a number where Reon sang about her family. Makaze and Kurenai played her parents. Makaze made a very charming Japanese beauty in her apron (I usually don't like it when they make her wear dresses, but here she looked so natural it suited her well). She had to bend her knees a little to appear shorter than Kurenai. Kurenai as Reon's father was weird looking, with thick eyebrows that made him look like a comic character. But he was a very sweet father, eagerly making faces and shaking a rattle at baby Reon, and smiling even when the fighting kids accidentally poured a tea kettle on him. I've always felt that Makaze and Kurenai had great chemistry together and seeing them play a married couple was adorable.

Gemini from Etoile de Takarazuka

Again, putting otokoyaku in drag isn't fun if you don't give her character. Well, in this revue Kurenai had to put her skills to the test by switching between two characters several times during the same number. The split-personality Gemini suffered from manic-depressive behavious. 

The female side was happy and giddy and optimistic (”Everybody loves me, I'm so pretty, and so witty, I'm so gay!”)

...and the male half was gloomy and depressed and had no self-esteem (”Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I'll go eat worms...”). 

I have to respect her for managing these quick switches between otokoyaku and onnayaku, cheerful and gloomy, the changing between characters was done smoothly.

Also, I want that dress...   suit...   costume...   thing...   I want that dresssuitcostumething. I would wear it to every dance ball ever.

Frederic de Marmont from Napoleon

This show had a ton of characters, many of them quite colourful ones, and unfortunately Marmont was often left as only the observer of things happening around him (well, the story is being told by him, so it kinda fits). Nevertheless I think Kurenai was very handsome in the uniform, and I think Marmont got some important scenes. He knew Napoleon from the military school and there's a song number where he voices concern for his friend's endless thirst for more victories. In the end, he is the one who decides to surrender Paris, understanding that it's madness to keep fighting and lose more lives when losing the battle can no longer be avoided.

The part I remember Kurenai most in this show is actually from the minirevue. She dances a rather romantic dance with Makaze. I will say it again, these two had great chemistry together.

Philippe from Sun King

I know there are probably only like a handful of fans who like this show besides me, but I loved it. I've always been a sucker for French imported musicals in zuka. This show is another example of good casting, everyone gets a character that no one else would have done as well as they have. Kurenai, being the best there is at comedy, gets the comedic relief character Philippe the gay-tailed pheasant, who also shows to the audience how the royals and nobles lived in a fantasy bubble completely separated from real life. She gets three songs and she sings them well. I haven't mentioned it before now, but I really like Kurenai's voice. It's a very recognisable, charming, unique voice. I also have to show respect at how easily and naturally she wears the gaudiest costumes. This show has some really ridiculous costume designs for the nobles to show how separate they are from common folks, but Kurenai wears hers with pride. I can almost picture her looking at a costume desing and being like ”Wow that is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, when can I try it on?”

Percy Blakeney from Scarlet Pimpernel

When Reon and Nene graduated, my star also left Hoshigumi and I followed her to a new home troupe, so I haven't seen that many Hoshigumi shows after Reon's era. But when I saw that they were going to make Scarlett Pimpernel, I had to get it. I had seen Kurenai perform Percy as a shinko role and I thought she was brilliant even then.

Of course I was going to use screenshots of the fencing scene. What else did you expect?

Once when I was sick and couldn't even read books, just rest, I borrowed some audio books from the library. This is how I was introduced to Scarlet Pimpernel. I liked the audio book a lot, especially the menacing, raspy voice they gave to Chauvelin. I was delighted to discover one of the first stories to use the idea of a masked hero. Men who like Batman are not allowed to make fun of me for liking Scarlet Pimpernel.

Scarlet Pimpernel is such an entertaining story and Percy is such a charming hero, saving innocents and having fun while doing it. I like Kiriya Hiromu's Percy a lot too, but Kurenai's is my favourite. She really gets into the character and makes a very lovely Percy. Having to wear disguises in this show, she once again shows her ability to fit into all deliciously awful outfits (like the suits they wear to the party held by the prince of Wales). But even out of disguises, I've got to admit Percy's got style. I also obviously adored the sword dance in the mini revue. Kurenai's Percy brings a smile to my face whenever he's on screen. This is probably the role I will remember her most from.

I will miss Kurenai terribly. Whatever she decides to do after leaving Takarazuka, I wish her good luck and happiness as thanks for all the times she brought me lauhter, tears and joy.

[otakuprincess15]

In Black and White - Day 1: Soulmates - AU Yeah August

Day 1 – Soul Mate AU – In Black and White (@auyeahaugust )

Summary: At thirteen years of age, Marinette has never seen colors, but her parents' love inspires her to dream of it. Adrien’s life is devoid of the colors that he has heard so many people praise, and he isnt sure anyone in his home will ever see them again. Then one fateful day, two small jewelry boxes change both their lives in ways they never expected.

A retelling of the origins episodes.

You can also find it posted on my account on ff.net under penname- marauderluverz

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had only ever seen in black and white. Living in a world where you only saw colors once you found your soulmate. And even then, you could only see colors if you were touching them in some way.

She knew of colors, of course. It had still been taught to her as a child. And what shades of gray tended to correspond to the colors her parents and other people spoke of.

She was inspired by her parents love, and hoped that one day she’d be able to live like them. The couple constantly allowed their hands to brush while working in the family bakery. Sometimes she would walk in and see her mom resting a hand against her dad's back while he carefully decorated a wedding cake. Because of course at a wedding there would be a need for a colorful cake. More than half the people there would be able to appreciate it.

Marinette only hoped that one day, she would have something just as special in her life. After all, designing would be so much more fun with colors. Although, she supposed it could be successful without them too.

Gabriel Agreste had managed as much. Marinette's favorite designer had lost his wife in recent years and all the news reports had said this would be the end of his company, his brand. Instead, he had found inspiration in the monochrome. His designs had become bigger and better even without the color they used to have. The designs sold especially well with the younger generation. It was rare to find your soulmate before sixteen and so the preteen and teen clothing lines were quite popular.

And while Marinette frequently wished to find her soulmate so she could see colors too. Or if she couldn’t have her soulmate yet, for something exciting to happen in her life. This wasn’t exactly what she meant.

She hadn’t wished for one of her classmates to transform into a strange rock monster. And she hadn’t wished for that monster to attack their city. And she most definitely hadn’t wished for a strange bug-mouse creature to appear in her room.

She stared at the strange creature that had appeared out of the jewelry box. It was a… kwami she had said? But what the heck was that even?

“I'm your friend, Marinette. You must trust me,” Tikki told her, “You’re the only one who can stop Stoneheart.”

Marinette shook her head. “This has to be some mistake. The only super power I could possible have is super-awkwardness.” She thought for a moment. If we need a superhero…

“I know! Alya would know. At least, I think she would. She loves superheroes.” Marinette nodded, “She’d totally be up for the job. You should go see her.”

Tikki flew closer, “Marinette, you’re the chosen one.”

Marinette had given in, she had put on the earrings and transformed (albeit by accident) into a superhero. And now she was using a yoyo of all things to swing across Paris.

She yelled as she flew through the air. I knew this was a mistake! I’m gonna crash and die now and-

CRASH!

Marinette’s eyes stayed closed as she felt her body smack into something that surprisingly wasn’t the cement. She opened her eyes to find she and whoever she had crashed into were tangled in her yoyo and hanging upside down.

She looked at the person and found herself staring into the most vivid eyes ever. Except, she could see colors. She wasn’t exactly sure what color his eyes were, shed have to check a color chart later, but that wasn’t what mattered now. What did matter was that she was sure his eyes were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The color made her feel like bolt of electricity had struck her. She took in his hair, the sheer brightness of it made her feel warm inside.

She glanced down and saw that her suit was red. That’s what Tikki said it would be. She looked back up to find that the boy she was currently tangled up with was staring at her, his eyes wide. Well, that was fair, she had just crashed into him.

Adrien had known how awesome life would be as soon as a little cat creature had appeared in his room. Being a superhero was a dream come true. But now something even more amazing had happened. He had found his soulmate and she was beautiful. The way her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. The shock of her costume’s boldness. Beautiful.

He helped them both down from the tangled yoyo and was disappointed when his vision turned back to black and white.

“So, you must be the partner my kwami told me about. I’m…” he thought for a second. “Chat Noir. Yeah, Chat Noir. What’s your name?”

He fought the urge to touch her again. Obviously, she was still adjusting to everything, he didn’t want to freak her out.

“I'm M-” she tugged on the string of her yoyo, until it came loose suddenly, swinging through the air and promptly smacked him on the head. She pulled it to her. “Madly clumsy. I’m so clumsy. Sorry.”

He laughed, “No worries, Clumsy girl. I’m still learning the ropes myself.” He paused for a moment, unsure how to bring up the color that had flooded his vision moments before.

“Did you-” they both started at the same time.

“Sorry.” Both of them again. He could only smile as he gestured for her to talk.

“Did you see what happened just a minute ago?” She asked.

Adrien's smile grew. “So it wasn’t just me?” he held out a hand to her and waited for her to accept it.

Marinette stared down at the black clad hand. She knew now that his costume was actually black. But the thought of taking hold of it scared her. If she did, and if her world filled with color, wouldn’t that mean she’d just found her soulmate?

Her eyes darted up to look at his face and she saw that his smile was fading into an uncertain frown. He pulled his hand back.

“It’s all right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Everything’s kind of happening fast.”

Marinette nodded sheepishly. Did I really just refuse to hold my soulmate’s hand?

She didn’t get another moment to dwell on it though as the next moment there was a crash as a nearby building toppled.

Chat extended his baton, bounding off in the direction of the crash.

“Where are you going?” she yelled after him.

He glanced back. “To save Paris, of course!”

She stared after him before looking down at her hand again. “Trust yourself. Trust yourself.”

Then she flung her yoyo toward the nearest building and screamed as it pulled her along.

“Pound it!”

The moments their hands touched the stadium lit up in color. And even though she expected it to, Chat Noir’s hand didn’t linger against hers.

She opened her mouth to apologize for before but Chat's ring beeped again as another pad disappeared.

“You need to go before you transform back,” she told him.

He nodded, “See you later Super Bug!” he called out as he leapt away from the stadium.

Marinette stared down at her hand. “See you, Chat Noir.”

The next day at school, Marinette was fuming after her interaction with the new kid in her class. She was already having a rough day after finding out that she hadn’t purified the akuma properly and had therefore put Paris in more danger. But to then come to school and find she would have another bully to worry about was too much. Adrien Agreste seemed every bit as stuck up as Chloe. No wonder they’re friends, she thought to herself as she sat in class.

It was too bad too. With her love of fashion, she was sure they could’ve been good friends. They would’ve had tons to talk about.

Marinette glanced at Adrien. She watched as his eyes flicked in her direction and she quickly averted her gaze with a frown. It really was too bad.

The following day, as Adrien watched Ladybug give her speech atop the Eiffel Tower, he found he couldn’t be any happier that she was his soulmate. She was… miraculous. He smirked at his mental pun.

“All right, Chaton, time for us to go.” She waved before spinning her yoyo to swing away.

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Wait! Shouldn’t we talk or something? We just found out we’re soulmates.”

Ladybug fidgeted, uncomfortable with how green (she’d since remembered that that’s what the color was) his eyes were. “I- we can’t right now. We have to go before we detransform and I don’t know that I’m ready for us to reveal our identities just yet.”

Adrien nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. “Right. That’s fine. No rush, My Lady. We can talk next time.”

And with that, Ladybug took off into the Paris skyline, leaving Chat to wonder when they'd see each other next.

Adrien walked into class feeling great. They had successfully defeated their first akuma, his dad had decided to allow him to attend public school, and he had found his soulmate. Even if she did seem a bit… reluctant. She'll warm up to me eventually.

He stepped into the classroom and waved to Nino. Then with his hand still raised, he greeted the girls sitting behind them. He watched with dismay as Marinette turned away with a huff.

And she’s still mad at me, he thought, dropping into his seat with a sigh.

“Dude, you wanna make friends, right?” Nino asked. “Then talk to Marinette about the chewing gum.”

“But what should I say to her?”

Nino smiled, “Just be yourself.”

Adrien tried all day to find a moment to talk to Marinette, but she did a good job of avoiding him. He groaned as he threw his books into his bag. “Plagg, how am I ever going to fix things with Marinette if she won’t give me the chance?”

Plagg floated just inside of the locker. “So what? Who cares about pigtails girl anyway? Let’s go get some camembert.”

Adrien rolled his eyes as Plagg zoomed inside of his bag. He stepped out of the locker room realizing he was one of the last people at school for the day. “I guess I’ll just have to try again tomorrow.”

So, the last thing he expected, was to walk out the school door and find Marinette standing just under the awning.

Now is my chance.

“Hey,” he greeted, giving a small wave.

Marinette turned away and Adrien looked down. Guess not.

Adrien pulled out his umbrella. “I just wanted you to know, I was only trying to take the gum off your seat, I swear.” He watched as her eyes were trained on him. “I’ve never been to school before. I’ve never had friends. It’s all sort of new to me.” He shrugged, then turned and held out the umbrella toward her. One last chance to get her to see I'm not a bad guy.

He watched her eyes widen at his gesture. Then her hand reached out slowly to take the umbrella. And when their fingers brushed, the first thing Adrien saw was blue.

“Chaton?” she asked.

Adrien couldn’t help his grin as he answered. “My Lady?”

[justanoutlawfic]

Back To You: Chapt. 7

Story Summary: 5 years ago, Belle left Storybrooke and became a New York Times Bestselling Author. Now, she's returning to Storybrooke to try to convince her husband to finally give her the divorce she's been begging for. However, the longer she spends in town...the more she realizes...maybe that's not what she wants anymore.

Chapter Summary: A look back into Gold’s accident that drove him to get sober. In the present, Belle goes wedding dress shopping.

Also on AO3

5 Years Ago

 His head hurt and his leg did too. There were lots of bright lights and for a moment, he wondered if he had died.

 Then he saw his son, who looked pissed.

 “Neal,” he choked out. “What happened?”

Neal handed him a cup of water that was at the end table next to him, watching his father down it. “You wrapped your car around a tree.

“Oh.”

 It had been a month since Belle left and that afternoon was when he had gotten the divorce papers. The last thing he remembered was reaching for the key to the liquor cabinet.

 “You shattered your ankle,” Neal continued. His voice was solemn, though anger was clearly written all over his face. Gold couldn’t blame him. He’d be angry with him too. “They’re going to do surgery but they’re not very hopeful. Your car is totaled, completely.”

Gold didn’t even care about any of that. He deserved every bit of whatever came to him. “And the police?”

“You’re very lucky you didn’t hurt anyone and that your daughter-in-law is the sheriff.”

 Gold let out a shaky breath, but didn’t say anything further. The room felt so cold, so frigid. He hated hospitals. They reminded him of what had happened months ago, when he had to say goodbye to his daughter. It just wasn’t fair. That time Belle had been the patient, and now…

 Neal interrupted his thoughts. “That doesn’t mean your off the hook.”

“I figured.”

“Rehab. No objections this time. I lost my mother, I won’t lose my father too. You could’ve died tonight.” Neal had tears building up in his eyes now and Gold felt regret in the pit of his stomach. He had been such an idiot. He had scared his son, he had nearly died. Just like Belle had warned him all of those times.

 Belle.

 “Did you call Belle?”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t. If I have a chance of getting her back, she can’t know.”

His son nodded. “You also need to get help.”

 He exhaled through his nose. Neal was just going to keep repeating that, no matter what he said. He had been doing that since Belle left, even before then. Everyone was trying to talk sense into him and nothing worked. Now, he knew that he could’ve died. What would that have done to Belle? Maybe she wouldn’t care, but maybe it’d hurt her. He didn’t want to do that further. He didn’t want to hurt anyone in his family. He hadn’t seen Neal cry since Henry was born, no crying over being scared since he realized that Milah wasn’t really coming back for him.

 Gold wouldn’t cause anymore tears, not if he could help it.

 “I know. I’m sorry, son.”

Neal’s mouth opened, nearly accepting the apology right off the bat but then he stopped. Gold understood. It wasn’t okay and he didn’t need to be forgiven, not yet. “Yeah, well, just don’t die, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Gold tapped his cane as he waited in line, a copy of Belle’s book in his hand. He had waited in the line for an hour, but it’d be worth it. No matter where they were, he had to celebrate her big achievement.

 Then he stepped forward and saw her. She looked damn beautiful, her curls sprawling down her back. Her blue dress matched her eyes and she had that same intoxicating laugh when a fan said something funny. Beneath the table, he could spot a pair of heels, she always wore heels. Even when she had been pregnant and he had feared that she’d trip and hurt herself and the baby, she insisted.

 “Feet need to look pretty too, Sam,” she’d lightly tease him.

 He pretended to be annoyed by it, but nearly every holiday, she’d get another pair of him. He had been planning on building her a shoe closet before everything went wrong. Before he had spotted her, he was still planning on doing it. He’d do anything to make her happy, to make her smile again.

 Yet, she was already so happy. He had spent the last 2 years in pain, but she was happy. He hadn’t seen her smile like that since Nellie died.

 He glanced at the book in his hands. The character obviously based on him was an alcoholic that “Lacey” had to let go. Belle had done the same with him.

 It wasn’t fair to force her to rehash the past, not when she had this life. She had a long line of adoring fans, a hit book. He was barely a year sober. He had checked himself back in just a few months prior to make sure that he didn’t fall off the wagon again. Yes, he could offer her financial happiness, but she didn’t need that anymore. She needed a good husband.

 He had ways to go before he’d worthy of her again.

 Pushing out of line, he went to the shelves. He grabbed the books she didn’t have on her table and brought them to the check out, buying every single copy.

 “Belle’s so nice,” the cashier gushed as he swiped his card. “Did you meet her?”

“No, but that’s okay. I knew her before.”

“You lucky duck.”

“I was,” he whispered.

 Present Day

 Belle twisted the engagement ring around her finger. Jefferson had overnighted it from New York and it was just as beautiful as it had been in the box. A single diamond that shined in the light, with a ruby on either side. Her mind flashed back to her other engagement ring, the one Gold had given her. It had been grand, a big diamond surrounded by sapphires. Gold had said that they matched her eyes. It had matched her wedding band perfectly. Silver, she preferred it to gold.

 Though, she loved this ring too, she told herself. Even if it was gold, that was Jefferson’s favorite. He wanted it to go with his band, which he also planned on being gold. She would give him that. A ring was just a ring, it didn’t matter.

 She thought back to the day she had met him, just over 2 years ago. She’d never tell anyone the exact date and that was probably for the best.

 It was Sampson’s birthday and the thought couldn’t escape Belle’s mind. 3 years ago, she’d be getting a cake from Granny’s (vanilla, his favorite, with buttercream frosting). She’d take a million years getting him a gift. He had everything and he never had requests. His last birthday was a week before things went pear shaped and she had bought him a polaroid camera.

 “Because you hate taking pictures with your phone”

 He had loved it and instantly took a picture of her stomach to put in the baby book. He said it’d be perfect, that he had one when Neal was a baby and it was perfect to capture memories instantly. He couldn’t wait to take a million pictures of Nellie with it.

 After she left, she never sent a card or a gift. He always sent her flowers on her, it was an anonymous arrangement, but no one else sent her tiger lilies. Sometimes she wondered if she should send a little something, but it’d send mixed signals. They were over, plain and simple.

 She was so lost in thought, she didn’t notice the man in front of her, colliding into him.

 “I’m so sorry,” she said, frantically.

He simply smiled. “No worries, you were so far gone, I’m pretty sure I’m lucky all I got was a bump.”

She let out a soft chuckle. “My head’s in the clouds, I guess.”

 Belle took in the man in front of her. He was handsome, no doubting that. He had a mop of dark curls and a crazy smile, that was somehow comforting at the same time. He was wearing a nice suit, with a top hat on his head. It was quite the first impression.

 “One of the better places for it to be,” he said.

Belle looked around her publisher’s office. “Are you one of Mal’s authors?”

“No, no. I don’t write. I’m in costume design. One of her books is being made into a movie and I wanted her to consult.”

“Costume design, huh? Sounds fun.”

“It can be.” He tilted his head. “Are you Belle French?”

“You know me?”

“My friend Mulan loves your work. I see your face on the backs of her books.” His smile widened. “Though, I gotta say, you’re much prettier in person.”

Blush crept over her cheeks. “Thank you. I never did catch your name.”

“Jefferson, Jefferson Chapeau.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He took her hand and kissed it, making her blush harder. “Are you going to Mal’s Christmas party?”

“I was um, thinking about it. Why?”

“I was invited. I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Guess you will.”

 “Belle!”

 She looked up, remembering where she was: the airport. Mulan, Ariel and Jasmine were running right for her. They threw their arms around her, hugging her tightly. Belle grinned, hugging them tighter.

 “I’ve missed you guys,” she said.

“We’ve missed you too!” Ariel grabbed hold of her left hand. “Oh good, you got the ring!”

“Yeah, Jeff wanted me to have it as soon as possible.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Mulan mumbled.

Jasmine elbowed her in the ribs. “Mulan.”

“Sorry. So, are we going to the inn you’ve told us all about?”

Belle wanted to push, but knew better. Mulan had a quick mouth about her and she didn’t want to get into an argument in the middle of the airport. “Yes, just to drop off your stuff. Then, my best friend from Storybrooke made us reservations at the bridal boutique. That’s if you guys aren’t too tired.”

“Of course not.” Ariel grabbed her hand. “That’s why we’re here! We’ve got to help you plan the best wedding ever!”

Storybrooke only had one bridal boutique and Belle would hardly call it couture, but she didn’t care. She had worn her mother’s wedding dress when she married Gold and loved how classic it was. It didn’t seem right to wear that again, though, given the circumstances. Instead, she’d agreed to look here. It was filled with lots of different dresses, varying in colors and styles. Belle wasn’t sure where to start first, but luckily, she’d have help.

 Ruby was already waiting when she arrived with her New York friends, as was her mother.

 “Ruby, Mama, this is Ariel and Jasmine, my bridesmaids,” Belle introduced them. “Ariel, Jasmine, this is my childhood best friend, also maid of honor, and mother.”

“So nice to meet you,” Jasmine said, shaking their hands, while Ariel went in for the hug.

“Now I see where Belle gets her good looks,” Ariel said to Colette, who smiled.

“That’s very kind of you, honey.”

“And this is Mulan,” Belle said. “Jefferson’s woman of honor.”

 Ruby turned to shake Mulan’s hand and paused, heat quickly coming to her face. Belle smirked, she had been hoping for that reaction. She had asked Mulan to come as Jefferson’s best friend, but she also so happened to know that she was a lesbian. Mulan seemed just as taken with Ruby as she was and fumbled to shake her hand.

 “A pleasure.”

“You…you too,” Ruby stammered. She blinked a few times, taking in Mulan’s low cut red top before feeling Colette nudge her. “Let’s look at dresses!”

Belle giggled. “Yes, let’s.”

 Everyone seemed to have their own idea about what Belle could wear, Ariel and Ruby clearly projecting their own likes (did Ruby really expect Belle to wear a cocktail style dress that nearly made her boobs spill out?) while Colette and Jasmine were trying to pull things they assumed that Belle would like, but were too old fashioned (Belle didn’t want a collar, her last wedding dress hadn’t had one.). Luckily, Mulan helped the consultant, Ashley, reign the bridesmaidzillas and started pulling some actual suggestions.

 She found herself in a simple white dress with tulle sleeve straps that felt a mix of classic and modern. Her curls were pulled back with a clip that she had brought and she could feel the butterflies gathering in her stomach as she looked in the mirror. Ashley zipped up the back and folded her arms triumphantly.

 “What do we think?”

“It…it’s perfect.”

She grinned. “Should we show your friends and mom?”

“Yes, definitely.”

 Ashley lead Belle out of the dressing room and helped her up onto the platform. The girls jumped up, rushing around to take in the dress.

 “Oh Belle, you look beautiful,” Colette said.

Tears were in Ruby’s eyes as she played with the sleeve. “Tell me this one is it.”

Belle nodded. “I’ve got the butterflies, just like I did…” She trailed off, not wanting to go into her trying on her mom’s dress for the first time.

Colette could see the look on her face and bit her lip. “Belle,” she spoke carefully. “Are you sure you…you want to get married so soon?”

“It is all very fast,” Ariel chimed in. “I mean, will your divorce even be final by then?’

Belle squirmed in her spot. “Gold knows a judge, he said he’d take care of it so it’d get pushed through as soon as possible.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to jump into it right away.”

“I want to. Plus, Jefferson and I will be so busy and there’s no paparazzi that’s caught wind…this is what’s best.”

“If you’re sure,” Colette murmured.

“What is going on? A few days ago, you wanted me to get married. You were practically pushing me out of town to do so.”

“I just want to make sure this is really what you want.”

“It is.”

 Belle ignored the uneasy feeling that was overtaking the butterflies and turned to Ashley.

 “Can you please show me a veil you think will go good with this?”

 Ashley nodded and scurried off. Belle hated the way her mother and friends were now looking at her. Couldn’t they go back to when all of them had been excited over the dress and everything else? She had to break the awkwardness.

 “Mulan, don’t send Jefferson any pictures.”

She lightly smiled. “Of course I won’t.”

“Good, good.”

 Ashley returned a moment later, holding a veil. She adjusted it in Belle’s hair, giving it a flourish so it’d fall down her back. The bell above the door opened, indicating that someone came in. Belle found that odd, considering Ashley said they were her only appointment until that afternoon. Then she heard the consultant speak.

 “Mr. Gold, you must be here for the rent. Give me one moment.”

 Belle froze in place. This wasn’t happening, not right now. She had totally forgotten that he owned the shop, he owned practically everything in the damn town. She kept her eyes on the mirror, not daring to turn around, she couldn’t.

 Until she did.

 She turned around and saw him standing there. He looked as handsome as ever in his suit and new haircut, his hand gripping so tightly on his cane that his knuckles at turned white. He swallowed, his eyes wide with wonder.

 “You…you look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you’d be coming by.”

“Rent day.”

“Right.”

“So…is this the one?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you’d look beautiful in a paper sack, so I’d say it’s you that makes the dress beautiful.”

 Blush spread over her cheeks before she could help it and ducked her head away. Ariel tilted her head.

 “Who’s this?” She whispered. “He’s kinda hot, in a silver fox way.”

Mulan rolled her eyes. “Ariel, you cannot be that dumb. That’s her ex-husband.”

“Oh…I get it now.”

 Belle wanted the floor of the boutique to open out beneath her and suck her in. Gold was just smiling at her friends’ conversation, though in a way that just made it worse. As if sensing the awkward situation, Ashley dashed over, white envelope in hand.

 “Here it is, sorry for the wait,” she said.

Gold nodded. “Perfectly fine, Mrs. Herman. See you ladies around.”

 He walked out the door and Belle suddenly felt very hot.

“Are you alright, hon?” Ruby asked, rubbing her back.

“I…I think I need to eat something. I skipped breakfast. Ashley, the dress and veil are perfect. Let me change and then I’ll pay you.”

“Okay, awesome. We need to do a bit of alterations, so don’t forget to make the appointment,” Ashley said. “Need some help taking it off?”

“No…I’ll be fine.”

 Belle dashed into the changing room and fumbled with the zipper in the back, pulling it down. She had worn a strapless bra that day and white underwear, which only brought her back to her wedding night. It had been her first attempt at lingerie, though with Gold she quickly learned that it was a waste of money. It ended up on the floor in two seconds flat and it was just itchy.

 They had made love many times before, but that night seemed magical in a way. His hands on her skin, telling her how sexy she was, how he wanted to make her so wet. She could still remember how hard his penis had been, how great it felt when it came inside of her. When he actually came, the way she orgasmed and then doing it all over again when they had been recharged.

 It took Belle a moment to realize that her hand was in her underwear, becoming wet at the very thought. Oh God, she was getting turned on by the thought of Gold, while wedding dress shopping.

 She needed to get the hell out of Storybrooke. Jefferson was coming the next day, the wedding wasn’t long after that. Then they’d go back to New York and she’d forget about all of this. She had to.

 “You alright in there, Belles?” Jasmine asked, knocking on the door.

“Fine!”

 Belle threw her jeans and shirt back on, gathering the dress to take it to check out. She was getting married soon. That was what mattered.

[apparitionism]

Sugar 2

Aaaaand now I’d like to wish @baeringandwells a very happy New Year! Tracy Bering, longing, and fluff: in the first part of this sweet tale, those boxes were all checked, and here in part two, they are still check, check, and checkity-check-plus-check. This concluding part got a little long... what a surprise, right? You know that once these loons get to yammering, I’m loath (or for those of you across the pond, loth) to shut them up. So it’s lengthy. And lordy is it sweet. I mean, I think so; you might not... check your pancreatic function, anyhow, just to be safe. (P.S.: ENORMOUS thanks to @kla1991 for running the holiday show this year!) (P.P.S. To anon: I do indeed have an AO3 account. I’m apparitionism there, too.) (P.P.P.S. To ants-in-Finland anon: I’m laughing, but also, thank you. Sincerely.)

Sugar 2

An enormous fir tree indeed dominated the space into which Myka and the others had been transported, or which had replaced their normal surroundings, or whatever kind of non-natural thing had happened to turn a vaguely normal Christmas Eve into... no. No, no, no.

But then Myka saw Helena. She wore a uniform of some kind, a swallowtail red coat featuring gold buttons and braid and epaulets, while on her head perched a tall black-and-gold top hat/crown thing. Her face displayed unnaturally heavy makeup that elongated her jaw in a way that seemed designed to suggest...

“No, no, no,” Myka said aloud, but she was afraid it could no longer be denied. “Somebody tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“What does it look like?” Helena asked. “A Christmas scene, orchestrally accompanied, in which one finds dancing toys, including toy soldiers, and... mice? And you seem to be wearing a nightgown. Charming, but not generally how I picture your sleepwear. Not that I have pictured it. Of course not. There would be no circumstance in which—” She cleared her throat. “In any case, as for myself...” She looked down at her arms, at the gold-buttoned front of her coat. Raised her hands to her head and touched her hat. “Fascinating.”

“That’s one word for it,” Pete said.

Claudia said, “I wouldn’t be pointing fingers, man. What’s with the ears and the tail?”

That made Pete whip his head around to regard his rear end, to which a tail seemed to have been tied; his ears, too, sported attachments that made them look bigger. More animal.

“Best guess,” Myka said, “given that there’s also a crown? He’s the Mouse King.”

Pete reached up, took off his crown, and held it up in front of them all. “Lookit that! Royalty! Good for me! But how do you know I’m a mouse?”

“Because,” Myka said, and she briefly entertained the idea that if she didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be true.. but she of all people knew that never worked. She sighed and gave up: “Helena’s the Nutcracker.”

Pete snickered. “Appropriate.”

“You should be happy that I am not in actuality such an implement,” Helena said, “given the effectivity I believe I mentioned earlier. You should also be happy that you do not have seven heads.”

Pete had nodded enthusiastically at her first statement, but in response to the second, he cocked his head in question. “Kind of a random thing to put on my ‘thrilled-about’ list.”

“The Mouse King has seven heads in the Hoffmann,” Helena informed him. “I concede that would be a difficult effect to achieve in a ballet, which I presume, given the music and the abject horror on Myka’s face, this is.” She turned to Myka and said, “My most sincere condolences.”

Claudia said, “Waitaminute. Who am I supposed to be?” She fluttered the edges of the cape that draped her shoulders.

“I think you’re Drosselmeyer,” Myka told her. “He’s Clara’s—or, I guess my—godfather. He’s the one who made all the dancing toys, and the Nutcracker too, as Clara’s Christmas present. He’s a little creepy.”

“Goals. What about Tracy? Nothing’s different about her outfit.”

Tracy stood at the side of the... was it a stage? The side of the space, whatever it was, and she said, with a hint of a pout, “No costume? I’ve got to be somebody who isn’t in the ballet.” She perked up. “Maybe I’m Balanchine! Or Tchaikovsky!” But then she pouted again. “Probably just the narrator, though. Helps the kids in the audience follow the story... because a lot of them want to, unlike Myka, who was always too busy being traumatized.”

No kidding I was traumatized, Myka thought, and then: Tracy. Oh god. “Okay,” she began, but she could barely speak; her breathing thinned and shallowed and she thought she might pass out, because what explanation would she give for this? “Tracy,” she tried, “this is a really vivid dream you’re having. You fell asleep, and that is what this is. Okay? That’s all this is.”

Tracy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you say. But I’m going to assume that that’s about as true as your unconvincing story of how a tornado destroyed my nursery.”

Pete said, “But also, your pregnancy hormones made you not remember the tornado. That was an important part of the unconvincing story.”

“Right,” Tracy said, poker-faced. “I’m just saying that if this were actually a dream, I don’t think any of you would care so much about trying to figure anything out. Because I, as the one having the dream, would already know.”

Helena laughed. “Tracy, I find you to be not unlike your sister, in some rather salient respects.”

Myka said, and as she spoke she realized Tracy was saying the exact same thing with the exact same intonation, “Is that good or bad?”

Helena pronounced, “And upon this evidence, my lord, I rest my case.” Said to a presumably nonexistent judge, but Myka wasn’t feeling entirely safe about any presumptions at this point.

“The Case of the Similar Siblings,” Claudia offered.

“Hey, why are we never in an episode of Perry Mason? That’s a great show,” Pete said.

Clearly, being rodent royalty did nothing to tamp down his ability to be annoying. “What a great idea, Pete,” Myka fake-enthused. “Start throwing out suggestions of new ways to crazy up our lives. I mean, why not ask why we’re never on the Pequod trying to kill Moby-Dick?”

“Because I don’t want to be on the Pequod trying to kill Moby-Dick. You wouldn’t want it either. You wrote a check to some ‘save the whales’ group two weeks ago; we all saw you do it.”

“My point was that nobody wants to be in anything.”

“That’s so untrue. This time of year, I’d kill to be in Die Hard. Besides, you were pretty happy to be in that detective-noir-thingy, weren’t you? Or maybe you changed your mind, because it turned out not to be a love story after all?”

He’d moved closer, practically in her face. Why was he being so confrontational? For that matter, why was she herself being so confrontational instead of trying to figure out how to get them all out of this?

Myka opened her mouth to ask, but Helena preempted her with, “I have a different question, one that may be slightly more pertinent: am I indeed expected to lead the dancing soldiers into battle against the dancing mice? The troops seem to be looking to me for choreographical guidance.” It was true; small soldiers shuffled their tiny toy feet as they turned hopeful little faces toward their Nutcracker commander. Helena spread her palms helplessly at them, then looked to Myka and Tracy.

Tracy said, “I don’t know how ‘my’ dream is supposed to work. I’m guessing that you people are way more experienced with things like this, and tornadoes. But it does seem like a good idea to follow the plot, doesn’t it?”

“Very well,” Helena said. “Be advised, however: I cannot dance.” She proceeded to prove that. Myka wasn’t sure how she felt about dancing being the one thing Helena Wells wasn’t able to do with preternatural skill... Helena seemed to be performing some unholy cross between hopscotch and a waltz, though the hopping was mostly a product of her attempts to avoid stepping on the soldiers and mice, none of whom stayed in formation. That in turn, of course, was the fault of their respective leaders, and Myka hadn’t expected to discover, not on Christmas Eve, that neither Helena nor Pete, who now marched with the mice, was capable of guiding an army of tiny creatures in terpsichorean combat. You really did learn something new, or several somethings new, every day.

Claudia had her arms crossed, watching the mayhem. “I have a really boring part in this show,” she announced.

Myka said, “I’m wearing a nightgown.”

“I give,” Claudia said. “Your part’s worse.” Her expression changed from grumpy to thoughtful. “I really feel like this is not what was supposed to happen. Or maybe it was, but I wonder why so trippy?”

“Supposed to happen? You did this?”

“I didn’t do this. At least, I didn’t think this was what I was doing.”

Myka could not imagine that a more frustrating group of people existed. Anywhere. “Not. For. Personal. Gain. Why aren’t we all required to have that tattooed somewhere visible?”

“It isn’t for personal gain! It’s for general Warehousical gain! Well, maybe a little bit of personal gain, just as a byproduct, but I swear to you, artifact usage is not involved here.”

Pete shouted, from the battlefield, “But why would you do anything at Christmas? You know how Christmas makes the Warehouse—whoops, hey Tracy, I mean ‘some storage facility’—lose its mind.”

“The thing I did, I didn’t do it at Christmas,” Claudia said. “And I didn’t even really do it. Plus there wasn’t really a single ‘it’ that was done. By me or by anybody—I mean, anything—else.”

Tracy said, “I’m sorry to interrupt all this clearly very important dream exposition, but Pete, you need to attack Helena.”

“I what now?”

“You’re the Mouse King,” Tracy told him. “You fight the Nutcracker, and you do it now, given the music.”

He brandished the sword he was holding. “Okay by me. H.G., you game?”

“I... suppose? En garde?”

Under other circumstances, Myka would have found Helena’s puzzled regard of her sword adorable. As it was, though, she was holding the blade completely wrong, so Myka went to her and moved her arm into a slightly more appropriate position. She asked Tracy, “Why couldn’t I be one of the ones with a weapon? I’m the only one who can actually fence.”

Tracy said, “You sort of do have a weapon, and you get to use it, but you have to let go of Helena first.” Myka dropped her guilty hands. Tracy went on, “Now you hit Pete with your shoe. To distract him.”

“Well, it’s no epée, but: with pleasure.” She took off her shoe—a dainty little ballet slipper that she probably couldn’t have taken a decent fencing stance in anyway—and whacked him over the head.

“That all you got?” Pete taunted, but now he seemed more silly than annoying.

“Now, Helena, the sword!” Tracy urged.

Helena squinted at the sword again. “I would say ‘with pleasure’ as well, but I don’t actually want to hurt him. Today.”

“We’ll do the thing where you ‘stab’ between my arm and my body,” Pete suggested, “and then I can finally do the death scene that wins me the Oscar.”

“Dance it. You have to dance it,” Tracy said.

Pete looked even more excited. “Dance it? Yes ma’am. You can all thank me later for the colossal moves I’m about to bust. Best Christmas present you’ll ever get.”

The moves Pete busted were “dance moves” under only the broadest definition of the phrase, in that he was moving, and the music continued to play. He spun; he shimmied; he sashayed; he struck poses. When he started in with what Myka was pretty sure was intended to be breakdancing, Claudia groaned, “My eyes. My sad, sorry eyes.”

Helena remarked, “The Nutcracker, having done this murderous deed, would feel such remorse that he, or rather I, would naturally turn his, or rather my, eyes away. Don’t you think?”

“Coward,” Myka said. “Look on his Works, ye Mighty, and despair. I know I am.”

“You don’t appreciate anything old school,” Pete grunted out, while attempting to hop on one hand. He fell over with a crash.

“She appreciates everything old school,” Tracy corrected him.

Myka wanted to say, “Definitely one thing—one person—who is very old school.” That one person who was very old school had accepted Myka’s challenge to keep watching Pete, and Myka let herself spend a moment enjoying Helena’s face as she worked to hold back what had to be either nausea or laughter. At last Helena gave up, and once she had allowed herself several low chuckles, she caught Myka’s eye and said, “He’d have been perfectly justified to laugh at me as well. And he does at least have great enthusiasm.” Myka had to agree: Pete did always commit. No matter what...

His commitment ended with him stretched out on the “stage,” twitching to show that the last of his mousy life, or maybe the horrified spirit of Terpsichore, was leaving his body.

Tracy said, “Pete, that’s enough. Next step: Myka and Helena, get in that bed over there.”

“Tracy!” Myka yelped

“Don’t be a prude. It’s in the ballet.”

Myka said, “I’m not being a prude.” And she wasn’t, not a prude, just a person who couldn’t stand the thought of getting something she wanted but not really getting it...

“You’re always being a prude,” Tracy said. “Get in the bed. It’s totally innocent: Clara’s just sleeping with the Nutcracker.”

Pete said, “That doesn’t sound innocent. That sounds like this ballet’s about to get all—”

“Pete!” Tracy interrupted. “You are not helping.”

Claudia remarked, “It’s weird how often people named Bering say that.”

Myka heard them, but hearing was her least important sense right then; far more worthy of her attention were sight and smell and touch—and taste, she wanted that too, but she couldn’t be that bold. She settled for resting her head on Helena’s epauletted shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin through the stiff-collared neck of the coat. She sighed.

She might have imagined it, but she thought she felt Helena’s chest rise, fall; heard a heavy exhalation: was Helena sighing too? And then she didn’t care, for a red-sleeved arm found its way around her shoulders.

“In bed with you.” The words left Myka’s mouth of their own accord.

****

“In bed with you,” Helena breathed in response to Myka’s words.

Helena closed her eyes, let the strange, wonderful sensation of bodily peace have its way with her. Oh, Myka, don’t move; don’t ever, ever move, she thought, but then: Or, better, move only to be closer to me; move only to put your mouth on mine... she felt such thoughts might become speech, might already have become speech, here in this unreal realm...

Then, though, she had a sensation of awakening... but Myka’s head was still on her shoulder... and Helena knew, then, that that sensation was perfect. The caress of her hair, the warmth of her breath. If Helena should turn her head, and if doing so should join their lips, how surprised Myka might be—but how soft her mouth. How soft and warm and wanted... and if Helena were very lucky, how wanting. Because each moment of this dream, no matter its dreamer, was leading Helena to stronger hope. If her eyes could remain closed, if she could continue holding Myka to her, perhaps she could maintain that hope—

“I can’t see,” she heard Pete complain. “Why’d it get dark?”

Tracy said, “First act curtain.”

“What happens next?” Claudia asked.

“Myka’s favorite part,” Tracy said, and in her voice was a note that reminded Helena greatly of Myka, but only at her most playful...

“Oh god,” Myka said, removing herself from Helena’s embrace, and she sounded not at all playful, “it’s the—”

“Land of Sweets!” Tracy crowed. “Is it wrong of me to be really entertained by this?”

“It’s your dream. Knock yourself out,” Myka said. She let herself fall back against Helena’s shoulder, and Helena rejoiced. Then, tragically, Myka sat up. At that point, Helena opened her eyes, just in time to see Myka stand up.

Helena reluctantly followed suit... and thus they were no longer in bed together.

“I’m in a different outfit,” Myka said.

“So you are,” Helena said, for Myka was indeed wearing not the modest, girlish nightgown of the previous act, but a more traditional ballet costume, with a silvery, bejeweled bodice and a skirt of pale pink gauze. Then Helena realized: “So am I.” Hers, too, was more obviously ballet-suitable: a rather princely doublet and breeches, all white.

“I sort of miss the uniform. You looked dashing,” Myka said.

“Do you think so?”

“I haven’t ever seen you in a uniform before. Also the hat. It really worked for you.” She turned her eyes away, as if sudden self-consciousness were the price of such statements of appreciation.

That made Helena, in turn, bold. “I shall never again go hatless,” she said, but instead of declaring it, she whispered it. Into Myka’s ear, which pinked.

Tracy said, “Interesting. Doubling the parts.” They all, Helena included, looked at her in question, and she went on, “Small companies sometimes do that.”

“I guess we’re a pretty small company,” Claudia said.

Tracy crossed her arms and regarded the new setting. “Although I’m not sure why we need anybody playing any parts, here in this dream I’m having, if mice and toy soldiers and cookies actually can dance. Those are real pieces of chocolate jumping around to the Spanish Dance, aren’t they? Maybe you crazy people are right; maybe this is a dream.”

“It. Is. A. Nightmare,” Myka said, and Helena did believe that from Myka’s perspective, that was absolutely true: candies of many sorts danced before them—some seemed a bit disappointed at the less-than-enthusiastic response they were receiving from the small Warehouse “company”—and sugar saturated the air, from which the occasional powdery granule seemed to spontaneously precipitate. Pete stuck his tongue out in an attempt to catch some as the rest of them continued to regard the dancing confections.

Claudia said, “Dream, nightmare; I think it’s none of the above. I think we’ve been put on hold, in some cosmic sense. I have never been so bored. It’s all just dancy-dance-dance.”

“Now, now.” Helena admonished. “Even if you have no appreciation for Tchaikovsky, consider the poor marzipan’s feelings.”

Pete gave up trying to catch sugar in his mouth. He complained, “What about my feelings? All I feel is hungry. Particularly since my super-aerobic dance of death. I should make workout videos.”

“I should get an insulin shot,” Myka said.

Claudia nodded. “No lie. I feel like I’ve got sugar in my hair. Gross. Here’s hoping maple syrup shampoo never becomes a thing.”

Myka said, to her sister, “See, Claudia understands.”

Tracy was listening to the music, her head cocked. “Myka, I really hate to break this to you, but...”

“But what?” Myka asked, in the tone of one who feared that Tracy did not in fact hate the news she was about to break.

And indeed, Tracy began to laugh. “You, sister of mine, are the Sugarplum Fairy. Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Myka began muttering, “I think you really are dreaming, and I think it’s some kind of revenge fantasy thing where you get back at me for that time I hid your toe shoes, which I apologized for, twenty-five years ago, and yet here you are, still holding it over my—”

“But in what might come as positive news,” Tracy said, in a conciliatory tone, “Helena seems to be your Cavalier.”

“That’s awesome news!” Claudia enthused. “Probably.”

“They’re going to dance a pas de deux here in a bit,” Tracy told her.

“Even. Awesomer. Again, probably. One question: is it, you know, all romantical?”

Tracy nodded. “Basically the only really romantic thing in the show.”

“Sparkly.” Claudia looked to the heavens and pressed her hands together, as if in prayer.

Helena said, “I myself am not finding fault with the situation. But is there some reason you are having such an excessively positive reaction?”

Claudia pointed her pressed hands at Helena. “Here’s the thing,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I’ve sussed out what’s happening.”

“You have determined that your function is Riemann-integrable,” Helena tried.

Tracy remarked, “And here I thought it was me, having a dream. A revenge dream.”

“It is,” Myka said, with no cheer. “And in your dream, Claudia has sussed out what’s happening and Helena’s doing a callback to something that wasn’t funny the first time. And now everybody can wake up so I can get out of this Sugarplum outfit and brush my teeth.”

“I don’t think we can wake up yet,” Claudia said. “Because here’s how I think we get out of this: you dance that dance that’s the only romantic thing in the show. And you mean it.”

“What do you mean, ‘mean it’?” Myka asked.

“What do you think ‘mean it’ means? It means mean it!”

Mean it, Helena thought, and she said, “Ah. Ha. Really?” She fought to keep her face from revealing her eagerness for that romantic dance—she would mean it; she could not help but mean it; and the extent to which she would mean it would be so readily apparent—

“H.G., you look like you’re gonna throw up,” Pete announced. “And hey, so does Myka.”

Helena noted that Myka’s face did seem to be fighting with itself, much as Helena’s own must... and she should not hope it might be for the same reason, but she did hope it all the same...

Tracy said, “That is not what Myka looks like when she’s about to throw up.”

“It’s what Myka looks like when...?” Claudia prompted.

“When it’s Christmas morning and she’s unreasonably terrified that she might get what she wants. She’s good with anticipation. Terrible with actual attainment.”

“Tracy, you should do it,” Myka said. She looked down at her body, touched the gossamer skirt. “I can’t dance. You can dance, and I can’t.”

Helena regarded that hand, resting on that skirt: it was shaking. She wanted to take it, raise it to her mouth, and kiss it. Instead, she said, “Perhaps in a dream you can.”

“But what if I can’t? What if it’s important to be able to?”

Helena tried to keep her tone light. “If that is the case, Pete and I have doomed us.”

“I don’t want to be doomed at all,” Myka said, and her voice gathered strength as she went on, “but in particular, I don’t want to be doomed by doing a dance about sugar in a ballet version of a fairy tale I don’t even like. That’s literally adding insult to injury.”

“I think you’d be doing a dance as sugar,” Tracy told her.

“Indignity to insult to injury. I really think you should do it instead.”

“There is no production of this ballet in which the narrator dances the pas de deux,” said Tracy. She could sound quite starchy when she wished to... Helena imagined that Myka must historically have responded rather poorly to that. But then Tracy’s voice softened. “Besides. There’s no reason for me to dance with Helena.”

“There’s no reason for me to either!”

“Isn’t there?” Tracy asked, and the starch was back.

“There shouldn’t be!” Now Myka’s eyes were wide, and her body seemed poised on the edge of movement, as if she might take off running, just to get away.

If only we could have stayed in bed together, Helena thought. Then she might have been able to maintain a belief that that was what they both wanted, that it was not anything from which Myka felt she needed to escape. “Perhaps there should be such a reason; perhaps there should not,” she said, then looked to Claudia. “I may be mistaken, but I believe it is time for you to make some statements that are about what they are about.”

Claudia swallowed, and possibly she was the one experiencing nausea now. “Are you sure?”

“As mentioned, I may be mistaken. So of course not,” Helena said.

“Good point.” Claudia sighed. “Okay, see, one of the things that the Caretaker’s supposed to, uh, do, which I personally did not know, prior to, you know, Caretaker Bootcamp, is to make sure that the agents... you know.” She fluttered her fingers.

“I don’t know,” Pete said, and Helena was certain that for once, he was speaking for them all.

“You know,” Claudia insisted. “Make sure they... get along. In the ways that would be best for them to... get along. But the thing about Mrs. F is, she kind of had... let’s say, some old-fashioned ideas. About who would. Or should. In what ways. And she and the... storage facility, they spent a lot of time and energy engineering... an outcome. But that was a major oops, because general wrongness. So anyhow, after some conversations about what’s what, which let me tell you I never expected to have to be the one explaining, some things got... put back. But then obviously there was, you know, another thing that needed to be addressed. So here we are.”

Myka shook her head. “That was... incomprehensible.”

Claudia shrugged. “So much for subtlety. Mrs. F thought you and Pete, right? And so she and the storage facility set up dominoes to maneuver that into happening. But obviously, big no on that, so we fixed it. But just as obviously, another... uh. Situation. Needed to. Let’s say develop? And that was my job.”

“You’ve been trying to get Myka and H.G. together,” Pete said.

“Right.”

But why take such a long way round?, Helena wondered. She did not have to ask aloud, however, for Pete saved her the trouble. He scratched his head in puzzlement and said, “In the weirdest way possible? Was that part of the bootcamp? ‘Whatever you do, do it weird’?”

Waving her hands at him, Claudia shouted, “If the whole thing happened to be entirely up to me, I’d just hang some mistletoe and say ‘Now smooch!’ Actually I wouldn’t even bother with the mistletoe, because why wait? But I’m pretty sure you know just as well as I do, bootcamp aside, that if it’s the storage facility running the show, it’s going to be a lot more complicated than just turn around three times and spit. Also I might not have full control of the dominoes yet, okay? Do you have any idea the kind of inbox situation I’m dealing with here?” Her gestures had escalated in intensity throughout this recitation, leaving her panting as she finished.

“But what if this is wrong,” Myka said, and Helena ached to think that she did believe it to be wrong. “It was wrong with Pete; I knew it was wrong.”

Claudia said, “I told you, Mrs. F blew that one. It was wrong.”

That did nothing to lessen Myka’s evident despair. Helena could not stand to let her think that Helena herself harbored any reservations, regardless, so she said, “I don’t want anyone, least of all myself, forced into anything. Having already been placed into many circumstances not of my choosing. But—”

“See?” Myka said.

“But I don’t care. I do want you.”

“And I want you, but—”

“You do?” Helena could scarce believe her ears; if that were true, then why the despair?

“Of course I do. Wait—you want me?”

“Of course I do.” She had never said anything more true.

“But what if this isn’t even what we want? What if it’s just what the Warehouse wants us to want?”

“I could not possibly care less,” Helena said, and she meant it. “What I do care about are the fascinating ways in which articulating the words ‘what’ and ‘want’ make your mouth move.”

“Don’t charm me. I don’t know what to do when you charm me. And I told you, I can’t dance. I can’t.”

Helena said, “Then don’t think of it as dancing. Tracy, tell us what narrative purpose this interlude serves in this ballet.”

“The Sugarplum Fairy and her Cavalier... it’s generally thought of as a way of modeling romance for the young Clara, or if the same ballerina’s dancing both parts, letting her experience romance in its most perfect form. An ideal representation.”

Helena turned to Myka. She said, as gently as she could, “Providing an ideal representation of romance—that, we can do. Can’t we?”

Myka didn’t immediately answer.

And now Helena did not intend to sound desperate, but she knew she would... “Please say yes. I don’t care about the Warehouse and what it does or doesn’t want. Please say yes.”

Myka did not say yes. But she did take a step toward Helena, and Helena’s heart leapt. But then: “I don’t know what to do,” Myka said.

“You might swoon for me,” Helena suggested lightly.

“I’m not much of a swooner,” Myka said back, not quite as lightly.

“It’s true that your spine and shoulders are somewhat rigid.” Helena put her hands on those rigid shoulders, as if to test them. But instead she let her warm hands rest on Myka’s nearly bare, yet incongruously warm, skin.

Myka gave a small shrug to her shoulders, and Helena tensed; did Myka want to shake her hands away? But Myka said, “Then again you could swoon for me.” And she moved her own hands to Helena’s waist, seemingly to support her, should her body indeed collapse.

“I fear it would seem overly theatrical,” Helena said, as a tease.

Myka smiled. “We’re in the middle of a fake Warehouse-contrived ballet, and you’re worried about seeming overly theatrical.”

This smile was one more of play than of joy, but Helena found it transporting all the same. She leaned close to Myka, so close, such that she was once again speaking directly into her ear. “What about this,” she said. “I want to kiss down and up again the length of that straight, strong spine.”

Myka’s hands tightened on Helena’s body. “You win. That might make me swoon.”

“And then breathe against the nape of your neck,” Helena said, for good measure.

And now into Helena’s ear, so close as to make Helena’s very skin vibrate, Myka said, “If we were not in the presence of witnesses, so help me god.”

Helena said, after a throat-clear, “And yet I have heard that you are always a prude.”

Myka shrugged again under Helena’s hands. “Tracy and I did grow up together, and she does know some things about me. But she doesn’t know everything.”

“No one knows everything,” Helena said, with an intentionally casual answering shrug. “So it should be hardly surprising that we two extremely intelligent, well-educated women might not be able to execute a perfect pas de deux. But... shall we make some attempt?” And now she did remove her hands from Myka’s shoulders and instead raised her arms, offering them as if to lead one of the partnered dances her parents had insisted she at least attempt to learn as a girl: right hand at waist level, left hand raised to receive the lady’s right. The gentleman’s role had seemed so much more compelling then, and was doubly so now, as Myka, despite her protests that she knew nothing, moved into the hold as if she, too, had been subjected to such lessons. “All I can remember, even vaguely, are the waltz and the polka,” Helena said. “Is this a waltz?”

“It’s probably not a polka, and I know in a waltz you count to three. Let’s give it a try.”

Surprisingly, then, they began to waltz. Their slow three-count had nothing to do with the music, as far as Helena could tell, but that could not matter. Mean it, Claudia had said. An ideal representation of romance, Tracy had said. At this moment, Helena had never meant anything like she meant her heartfelt hold of Myka’s body, and she could think of no model for romance more perfect than herself and Myka, counting to three in unison, trying unsuccessfully to avoid stepping on each other’s toes, looking down at their feet, looking back up again into each other’s eyes, smiling, looking away...

Helena heard Claudia say, “They really can’t dance.”

“Not at all,” Tracy agreed. “And yet...”

Helena did not dare break her count, or her concentration, but she suspected Claudia was nodding her own agreement with Tracy’s implication.

Myka was the one to break, though, for she said, “Did you hear Claudia? She said we can’t dance. I told you—”

“Then stop trying, and kiss me instead.” Helena had thought to say that as a tease. An absurdity: of course Myka would not kiss her, not here, not now.

But Myka did not hear it that way, and the way Myka heard it? That was how Helena had indeed meant it, and she understood Myka’s anxious words in response: “I thought we were supposed to dance. Besides, this shouldn’t be how we—our first—”

“First doesn’t matter.” So now, now, let the first be now... “No one kiss will matter—all of them will.”

“All of them...”

“Yes,” Helena said, with conviction. “All of them. The entire... what should the collective noun be? An osculation, perhaps?” She could do this, could give Myka a moment to think, to consider, to decide—to remember—that any first need not, and in the case of their own interactions, had not, set the tone and tenor of all that would come after.

Myka took that moment. Then she smiled and said, “A canoodle.”

Helena countered with, “A prurience.”

“That’s a little too lascivious. And don’t say ‘a lascivity,’” Myka added quickly. Then she tried, “An amatorium?”

Helena considered. “Not quite. I propose that we continue these attempts presently. At which time, I will emerge victorious.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself. What if I come up with the winner?”

Tracy asked, seemingly of no one in particular, “Is this part of their representation of ideal romance? Or are they like this all the time?”

Pete said, “They do not know how to shut up about this kind of thing. Never have. Storage facility didn’t maneuver ’em into that. Then again that’s probably what they think romance is.”

“I don’t have to bother figuring out what a storage facility called ‘the Warehouse’ has to do with anything, do I, because at some point I’ll ‘wake up,’” Tracy said. “Right?”

“Or something about hormones,” Pete assured her.

“Fantastic. Look, just tell me Helena isn’t going to hurt my sister.”

Helena tensed, waiting for Pete’s response. Pete took his time in answering, but he finally said, “I don’t think I can tell you that. I mean, she did before.”

Points for honesty, at least. Helena looked to Tracy, Pete, and Claudia and said, “Never again. I swear, never again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Tracy warned, and Helena did not doubt her intent.

“Hey,” Myka said, “I think that should be my line. But I’ve got a revised version: don’t make promises if you don’t intend to keep them. I know there’s no knowing what will happen.”

Helena said, “There is indeed no knowing. For I would have wished—but would not have dared—to consider a Christmas Eve on which I would be dancing with you.”

“We’re not even dancing,” Myka said, and it was, as far as it went, the truth. They were no longer moving, and Helena’s arms around Myka were no longer positioned with any formality.

But as far as it went, it did not go far enough. Helena said, “It is the oldest dance imaginable. And we are beginning it.” She paused. “Are we not?”

Myka said, simply, “Yes. We are.”

The kiss was surely no revolution in the art: their mouths moved together with a gentle yet intensifying pressure, and what innovation could she and Myka bring to such an old, simple action? Well, one at least, for what other perfect match of lovers could lay claim to having been separated by a century—then, after closing that gap, having waited still more years for the match to be made?

Such an old, simple action, and yet it carried such meaning, serving as both a culmination and a beginning... once begun, though, they did not stop, until they had kissed again, and again, and again, and once more. Helena drew back a bit and breathed out, “Five.”

That made Myka draw back slightly too. Puzzled: “That’s not a very creative collective noun.”

“But it is more than four.” Helena did not intend to brag, but it was objectively the case that five was more than four.

Myka laughed a small laugh, one that said she understood. “Okay. Six,” she said, and made it true.

“Seven,” Helena sighed, after she had made that true as well.

They were engaged in eight when Helena heard Pete say, “I think it’s working. Are we waking up?”

A veil fell again, a slow darkening followed by a slow brightening. And there they all were again, back in their old familiar living room, but in a newly familiar position: Helena’s arms were still around Myka, and Myka’s mouth had just left hers, and Helena tried to tell herself that waking up would be all right, that they would make the best of whatever happened; but she could not now imagine being satisfied to return to that stasis that had been not quite enough.

The floodgates had failed.

****

Should I move? Myka asked herself. She and Helena were locked in an embrace, and Myka felt her pulse in her suddenly lonely lips, felt it as a beat that wanted to push her forward to meet Helena’s mouth again. But they were in the real world now, and what if waking up again, here, meant that nothing had changed?

Tracy, as if she had read Myka’s thoughts, said, “It is all a dream of course.”

Myka stepped away from Helena’s arms. She didn’t look at Helena’s face. “Of course,” she said. “Of course it is. I mean, I’m so glad you think so.”

“I mean in the ballet, you idiot,” Tracy said. “That whole second part, about the Land of Sweets: Clara dreams it.”

Now Myka did look at Helena. Bleak, soft, sad: her eyes reminded Myka of her haunted hologram gaze, that gaze that knew so deeply how punitive her unreal body was. A constant “look but don’t touch” taunt... and Myka did not know if Helena understood that Myka, too, had felt it as punishment.

But a real body stood here now. “Then I don’t see why she—I mean I—would ever want to wake up,” Myka said. She took Helena’s right hand in both of hers, raised it to her mouth, and kissed it.

Helena made a small noise—disbelief?—but she put an arm around Myka’s hips and looked a question at her. Myka nodded. Helena said, “Then you should not have to. Wake up, that is.”

“Even though it’s too sweet for you?” Tracy asked, and her skeptical tone was clear. “In all the ways, I would’ve thought. Based on your... history.”

Helena, obviously emboldened by the location of her arm, exclaimed, “Tracy Bering, are you attempting to talk your sister out of this? Or are you simply making certain?”

“Trying to make certain. I’m getting that it’s important. I’d like things to work out the way they should, because I’m betting that if they do, I get to go home and everything will turn out okay. It’s like with Dad and that haunted book or whatever it was.”

Myka blanched. “How do you know about that?”

Tracy rolled her eyes and said, “Because I talk to our parents, Myka. You should try it sometime when nobody’s about to die.” Her tone became nonchalant. “You might want to try it sometime soon, in fact, because I bet you’d prefer to be the one to tell them about Helena... and you know bad I am at keeping a secret...”

Helena, exclaiming again: “Tracy Bering, are you now attempting to blackmail your sister into visiting your parents?”

“I’m just making statements that are true. What Myka does with them is up to her.”

And now Helena was laughing. “Tracy Bering. You are a Christmas gift I did not expect.”

“Hey! What am I exactly?” Myka said, and she hadn’t expected to be possessive, but: she put her own arm around Helena. And pulled her close.

Helena’s smile turned incandescent, but her voice was familiarly sly as she said, “If recent events are to be believed, you are my sugarplum. And/or fairy.”

Claudia spoke for the first time, as if she were trying out her voice to make sure it still worked. “H.G.,” she said, and coughed, “if you don’t make the dingy-ding-ding part of that song your ringtone for her, I will lose all respect for you.”

Pete chimed in with, “We all should have that as our Myka ringtone. ‘Is the Sugarplum Fairy calling you, Pete?’ ‘Yes. Yes she is.’”

“I’m strangely comforted by all of this,” Myka said.

“Are you really?” asked Helena.

“Well. It pretty much shows that nothing’s going to change.”

“Nothing?” Sly again.

“One thing. A very important thing.” She leaned her head against Helena’s neck.

“Two things,” Tracy said. “Don’t forget about Helena meeting the parents.”

“The parents of Myka and Tracy Bering,” Helena said, and her tone was one of “what manner of creatures are these.” “Hm. These parents, who named their older child Myka Ophelia Bering, and their younger, Tracy... Desdemona Bering?”

Tracy laughed. “Oh, good guess. But no.”

“Portia?” Helena tried, and Tracy shook her head. “Bianca?” Another negative. Helena twisted her lips one way, then the other. “Surely it couldn’t be Cleopatra.”

“I wish,” Tracy said.

“Why couldn’t mine be Cleopatra?” Myka griped. “Do you know how many times people have told me ‘get thee to a nunnery’?”

“Please don’t,” Helena said. “For I would be obliged now to come and liberate you from it, and I really don’t need to add to my offenses against religion. And the religious.” She turned back to Tracy. “It certainly can’t be Helena.”

“No, but you’re getting warm,” Tracy said.

“Hermia?”

“Still warm...” Tracy said, and she winked at Myka.

“Here it comes,” Myka agreed.

Helena pounced. “Ha! In the fairy realm, one Bering a sugarplum, the other a queen: Tracy Titania Bering. Observe you.”

“H.G.,” Claudia said, “it’s ‘look at you.’ Or ‘get you.’ ‘Observe you’ sounds weird.”

Tracy said, “I like her version. In fact I like her.”

“So the Wells mojo works on all the Berings,” Pete said, but he didn’t sound completely like himself. Myka put a mental post-it flag on that so she would not just not forget it, but also come back to it.

“If there is any such thing as Wells mojo, I would much prefer it work only on one particular Bering.” Helena emphasized her point by kissing Myka’s cheek. Myka reciprocated. It was ridiculously satisfying.

“That’s okay by me,” Tracy said. “If I’m lucky, Kevin will remember that he likes one particular Bering too.”

That made Claudia say, quickly, “I’m sorry, Tracy.” She put her hands in her jeans pockets and hunched her shoulders; she might as well have been captioned “embarrassment.” “The whole thing, all the straight-up lunatic reasons for it all... I’m also sorry that I’m technically not supposed to explain why I’m sorry, but I’m really really sorry. If it helps, I think if you’re not mad at your husband anymore, he might not have much of an idea that you ever were.”

Tracy waved the apology away. “Myka’s involved, so the reasons can’t help but be lunatic, and it’s not like I’ve never been furious at Kevin before today. But no matter how my little not-exactly-breakup works out, it does bring up one thing that our ideal lovebirds over there need to remember: the honeymoon ends.”

Claudia said, “I guess not today, though. Gotta say I’m a little surprised how strong the ‘mean it’ mojo carried over.”

Helena had been nosing against Myka’s neck, but now she raised her head and asked, “And how are you finding this part, Claudia? That is, if I have interpreted your previous metaphor correctly.”

“Don’t get yourself carbonite-frozen, is all I ask,” Claudia said.

“I have had enough of enforced immobility, thank you.”

Tracy said, “Then I think you should try movement instead.”

Myka was not particularly proud of how quickly her mind took that and went south—and then she was further flustered by Helena’s saying “What?” with a level of startlement that suggested she’d had the same thought.

Tracy started laughing. “Good god, your faces. I meant you should take a dance class.”

****

The entire rest of the evening, Myka let go of Helena only once: she went to the kitchen, where Pete was hunting through the refrigerator for food he hadn’t yet introduced himself to. She said, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he asked, his head still inside the appliance.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Mrs. F should apologize. We were both bystanders.”

“Not innocent, though,” she said, to the back of his head. “You committed. I didn’t.”

He didn’t turn around, and he didn’t speak.

“You’re going to freeze your face,” she told him.

“I’m not in the freezer,” he said, but he did stand up and close the door. “I’m sorry too.”

“What for?”

“I committed. You didn’t. Should’ve told me something, right?”

“I don’t know what should’ve told either of us anything.”

He turned to face her then. “You and H.G.” He puffed out a breath. “You look good together. I don’t just mean you’re both pretty—I mean you are—but you look good together. You look right. Sound right, too. You did, even before. That should’ve told everybody everything they needed to know.”

“Nobody here seems very good at paying attention,” Myka said.

“Well, Claudia is. Mostly. And Steve. Abigail too.” He sighed. “The newbies. Maybe the rest of us have been here too long.”

“‘The rest of us’? We just spent Christmas Eve in a ballet because ‘the rest of us’ apparently can’t be trusted to run our own lives,” she told him, and he huffed the start of a laugh. That seemed like a good sign, so she went on, “What I’m really saying is, you better stick around, because I need your help.”

“Yeah, okay,”  he said, and he turned back to the refrigerator.

“No, I mean I need your help right now. Helena and Claudia are explaining to each other why the Warehouse database should be made out of blockchain. Or something. And if they run off to the storage facility tonight to make that dream a reality, I’m holding you responsible.”

“You got some other plans?” he asked. And then he waggled his eyebrows.

It was all going to be all right. They’d probably still have a hiccup or two or several, but it was all going to be all right. “I didn’t spend Christmas Eve in some stupid ballet for no payoff, Lattimer.”

****

A year ago, Helena would not have imagined this Christmas Eve this way.

Pete and Claudia were still engaged in their video-game duel, although at considerably reduced volume... Tracy Bering had retired to the guest room after a long telephone conversation with her husband, whom she still loved, and who still loved her...

As for herself and Myka: alone now, in a darkened room, in a bed, continuing their dance...

There was no suggestion, on either of their parts, that they “take it slow”; no angst-ridden worries as to what the morning would bring; no hesitation at all—and if that was due to holiday disinhibition or the knowledge that there truly was no time like the present or even just the flat simplicity of two eager, tender adults willing and able to indulge their bodies with what was wanted, Helena could not have said.

What she did say, in a dark quiet moment right as Christmas Eve was becoming Christmas morning, came in response to Myka’s whispered, post-indulgence question, “And we’re sure this is real?”

“I hope so,” she said. Then, “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. I don’t expect an act curtain to fall, but your sister is right, of course: the honeymoon does end.”

Myka stretched her straight, strong spine—the length down and up of which Helena had indeed kissed. She said, “If it does, then we’ll just have to have a second one.”

“I had no idea you would be so romantic,” Helena told her. For Myka had indeed been romantic—she had said unabashed words of love, and of want, and Helena had answered them in rapturous kind.

“I didn’t either. Maybe it’s some aftereffect—excessive sweetness. It’ll probably wear off.”

“I suspect we’re likely to have more problems if it doesn’t wear off than if it does. As you’ve no doubt noted, I’m not especially sweet myself.”

Myka said, “I beg to differ,” and she kissed Helena again and again and again, as if she had found a secret fount of edulcoration, as if she could not get enough of all that her mouth encountered...

Much later, Helena murmured, “Torturous journey,” as she let her fingers trace an easier, smoother one across Myka’s collarbones.

“And we didn’t even know it was one. Not while we were on it.”

Helena sighed. “Blame the storage facility.” She paused. “Not a sentence one expects to utter.”

“Do you care? If we’ve been... nudged? Pushed?” Myka’s hands had been moving too, over Helena’s back, sliding over scapulae, then moving to Helena’s shoulders, down her arms. Now they stilled, waiting.

Helena sighed again. “Nudged, pushed. Flung? Away from each other, now toward each other. I care only that it took so long for the storage facility to get it right. I don’t appreciate the detours.”

“For my sanity, I’m just going to pretend that the storage facility isn’t as influential in everyone’s business as it apparently is. But I have to say, I think my parents are going to wake up tomorrow morning pretty confused about why they booked themselves on a cruise.”

“And yet they might enjoy it. Opinions can change, in the event. For example, how do you feel about The Nutcracker now?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” She shifted a bit, abruptly awkward under Helena’s weight. “You’ll take it the wrong way.”

Helena slid fully off of Myka’s body, turned on her side, and propped herself on her elbow. “You continue to find it your worst nightmare,” she guessed, though it seemed more a certainty.

“I can’t help it. I still can’t stand it—and I don’t understand why the storage facility had to stick us in that sugary horror show anyway.”

“Hm,” Helena said.

Myka said, with apology, “You’re thinking the honeymoon’s over right about now, aren’t you?”

“That is not at all what I am thinking. I am considering two questions. First, which of us, you or myself, has no objection, philosophical or otherwise, to the consumption of sweets?”

“You...” Myka said, but now with suspicion.

Helena chuckled. “And second, which of us was cast as the Sugarplum Fairy... the one who, we might say, is made of sugar?”

Myka closed her eyes. She made the same hand-to-forehead gesture she had, so much earlier in the evening, with Pete: as if she were attempting to ensure that her brain remained in place.

Helena, greatly satisfied, continued, “Thus I am thinking that the storage facility stuck us in that sugary horror show in order to indicate that I should—”

The hand that had been at Myka’s forehead moved swiftly to cover Helena’s mouth... but Myka smiled.

****

No, a year ago, even a day ago, Helena would not have imagined this Christmas Eve–become–Christmas morning this way. Even if she had, she would have told herself that such satiety could never be more than the stuff of fantasy... the stuff of sweet dreams.

But even the sweetest of dreams sometimes come true.

END

[etherealellaelf]

So I just saw Cats 2019 and here are my thoughts:

(I’mma talk about the good and bad things) So I went into this movie both worried about the cursed design and also as a longtime fan of Cats: the Musical. I first watched the 1998 filmed stage production on PBS when I was a little girl, and then I revisited it when I was older and became a fan of all the colorful characters, the haunting music, and the great dance performances. It’s based on the Poetry book by T.S. Elliot “Old Possum’s book of Practical Cats”. Since it’s a poetry book, there is a problem: each poem about the cats doesn’t flow very well into a cohesive plot. So the new movie fixed that. Here are some other good things about the 2019 Cats movie: *spoilers*

(And before I start I was sitting beside an old woman who told me that she saw the very first stage production of Cats in London many years ago and she said to me in a very concerned voice after the movie was over, “It wasn’t THAT bad, was it?” I looked her in the eye and shook my head and I told her it wasn’t that bad. I didn’t lie. It was just a little bad. But my heart went out to her nostalgia.)

-Victoria is the main character now, so the audience is seeing the cats through her eyes. She’s our vehicle. That makes the songs that the cats sing introduction songs; they’re introducing themselves to us and Victoria.

-Like I said before, the plot is a lot more cohesive. The new script explains what jellicle cats are, the purpose of the jellicle ball, and who macavity is. They also added a ton of stuff, like Macavity kidnapping the other contenders to become the “Jellicle choice”, the cat that the leader will choose to be reborn(like, cats have 9 lives? It’s a bit weird, just go with it), because he wants to be chosen. Macavity didn’t really do this in the old one, this cements him as the villain. Also other cats like mungojerry and rumpleteazer and bombalurina are helping macavity. 

-I have mixed feelings that Grizabella is being shunned because she used to work for Macavity. It does give the other cats a better reason to hate her, but they don’t hate mungojerry and stuff. I’ll talk about that later.

-These new additions to the story made it a lot more palatable, but at the same time I like the old version as well. They’re both good. This one is just a lot more cohesive.

-All of the ballerinas, dancers, and singers were really good, and the acting was pretty good too, for people pretending to be cats. I thought taylor swift’s rendition of “macavity” was really good, and they brought a new facet to her character and the odious nature of the song, as it’s now a villain song and she is a villain.

-Tom Hooper as director. I really liked his style in Les Mis, and I guess it kind of worked here.  (Also I love you so much Tom Hooper I feel bad that this movie did so badly because I want you to succeed, you have a great style and vision and it really worked for Les Mis.)

-They left out that awkward *scene*. You know the one. The o-r-g-y scene. Good on them. Thank you. I read somewhere that it was there, but when I watched the movie, it was not there. I’m confused by some reviews saying it was there. It wasn’t there?!?!?!

Now let’s talk about what I didn’t like.

-The “cursed” design. Clearly everyone agrees with me about this. I forgot about it within the first ten minutes of watching. I really liked the look of Old Deuterotomy, who was a very fluffy, long-haired cat. That’s what made the old designs from the musical so memorable: the wigs were really big and poofy and the leg and arm warmers looked like fuzzy cat legs. The floofiness gave them character. Making all the cats shorthaired just made them look pretty naked, and I know they did this to accentuate the line of dance(it’s why dancers wear tight clothes), but they should have had fluffier cheeks, fluffier heads, and fluffier limbs. That would’ve prevented all the naked-looking cats. I understand the animators wanted to try something new, but they should’ve taken a page out of Sonic the Hedgehog movie’s book and redesigned.

-They totally changed Mungojerry and rumpleteazer’s song! It used to be a vaudeville production and it was so mischievous and fun. Now it just doesn’t have much tune. 

-They cut the Pekes and the Pollicles, the song where the cats are making fun of how clumsy dogs are. But I suppose it’s probably for the best. Lots of people like dogs nowadays. 

-Grizabella getting shunned because she used to work for Macavity??? The integral part of her character is just that she’s old. They should have made the Jennifer Hudson cat look a lot older, with greying fur and hair and stuff. The other cats shun Grizabella because she’s a reminder that they will die one day and she used to be beautiful and wonderful like them, once. It’s a big part of their character and despite them trying to explain and gloss over why everyone hates her, my friend who’s never seen cats was still confused. I wish they hadn’t said she worked for Macavity, but at this point it’s canon so who am I to question it.

-They totally cut Munkustrap and Macavity’s fight. 

-Although they cut out the weird scene, there was a really strange scene where all the cat’s tails quivered in the moonlight and they started just acting so strange. Then suddenly everyone started dancing! I could’ve done without the tail quivering.

-The cockroaches and at times, the mice, with their human faces, were a bit weird. Especially when Rebel Wilson ate some of the cockroaches. Also a bit weird was when she unzipped her skin, but it’s fine, she did that in the stage version, too.

-The Rum Tum Tugger did not need to catch Victoria’s foot the way he did, as it was really close to his mouth and it was just a really weird decision. 

-I’m sorry, but when the Cats rubbed their heads against each other’s heads, it was a bit weird. In the stage production, head rubbing is done very fast. It’s over with. It’s done. In this one they lingered and stared a lot. I guess real cats do that. But anyway. It’s whatever.

-Some cats wore clothes and took them off at points as well while other cats did not wear clothes. I think it actually was good that the train cat wore suspenders and the fat cat, Bustopher Jones, wore a top hat and evening jacket. It was charming for them. I don’t think Idris Elba’s fedora and trench coat needed to come off of his body at all. He should’ve kept them on. Just make his ears poke out of his hat or something. He totally looked naked.

-”Jellicle” is a weird word. There is a jiggly sound associated with it.

-The opening orchestral music is, at times, hit or miss. I personally like it because it sounds eerie and strange, sinuous and slithery, like how a cat do. It can come across as creepy though, especially during the song “The Naming of Cats”. In the stage production I can’t really watch because those cats all, as one, look at the audience, staring into my soul, and chant the song in one voice, and then they advance on the audience and it’s creepy but I guess it’s interesting. Idk how to convey in words. I am glad they cut that particular element about that song from the movie. 

Okay, now I’m going to address people who won’t give it a shot:

-Give it a shot. You forget about how they look like ten minutes into the movie. If you think about it as an arthouse film about dancers pretending to be cats, then it is enjoyable. 

-There was a lot of time, money, talent, and effort put into this production. All the ballerinas and other dancers are very passionate about their performance and it shows. 

-The animators for this movie were only given 7 months to model and do special effects for every single character on this movie, and there are hundreds of cats. Toy Story worked on its movie for 4 years. So I guess it’s easy to accuse the animators, but they were just doing their jobs; they weren’t given a lot of time to make the designs look fantastic, and they couldn’t deviate from what their art directors told them to do. I’m sure that some of them wanted to do the stage makeup and hair and whatnot, but you have to remember; the actors and director had no idea what the finished product would look like. Don’t blame them.

-Let’s just face it: Cats is a really weird concept to begin with. Andrew Lloyd Weber had some good ideas, like Phantom of the Opera, and he had kind of strange ideas, like Cats. It was really popular in the 70′s because the play has music that is very 50′s themed(note the malt shoppe that is a milk bar in the movie and Rum Tum Tugger is supposed to be like an Elvis character) and 20′s themed(the vaudeville Mungojerry, Rumpleteazer, and Macavity themes), so in its time, this show was a lot like Stranger Things for us. It was a nostalgia trip. And even amongst theater fans, there is a tiny niche who love Cats. This is not a huge fanbase. I liked it by accident, stumbling upon it by coincidence. I don’t understand why they put so much money into it knowing this. They should’ve cast much smaller celebrities and advertised much smaller, but we all know that Andrew Lloyd Weber is Mr. Moneybags and Mr. Outlandish, so of course he wanted to attract a younger fanbase to keep the spirit going for years to come. I, as a dance and musical fan, liked the stage production. I think if you’re willing to overlook the cringe, how a lot of the cats wear clothes and others don’t, and Idris Elba’s neon green contacts, you could like it. I don’t know. I’m not you. I just think this movie was made for certain people who like the old version of Cats, and they should’ve marketed it to them, and the reason why they tanked so hard is because they didn’t. They should’ve put them in stage costume and makeup and only CGI’ed some things.

-Maybe it would’ve worked better as an animated movie, where the designs for the cats was simply a cat who does ballet. It worked for the stage production because we used our imagination and we thought they were cats with emotions, personalities, attitudes. I think if you squint you can imagine this on this movie as well. But the thing is there was just too much backlash and nobody wanted to see it. Fame is dictated by social media these days, and if they meme you, you’re done. There’s really nothing you can do.

-The moral of the story is maybe see it, but if you don’t want to, don’t. But keep in mind Cats isn’t for everyone. It’s only for people who liked the Cats musical. So if you did, great, if you don’t, then you don’t have to see it.

[mallory-a-bond]

Happy birthday Izuku Midoriya

Name: Zhalia [redacted]

Age: 15

Quirk: knight (Magica Defense)

Height: 5’11 1/2

Weight: 160lbs

Blood type: AB Positive

Hero name: Guardian

Overall abilities: a master hand to combat fighter and has mastery over all the weapons in her ancestral arsenal. As proven when using flaming broadsword against a Nomu and does not harm any of the surrounding areas and has successfully broken Toga’s arm when she had incapacitated Bakugo due to a villain’s quirk that caused him to go berserk.

Keen intellect and observation: she has been able to pinpoint multiple students when they were pitted against her while ‘deactivated’ and had been able to predict what they were going to do as soon as they attacked. Tomura had sent a few Nomu after her when with her class. Only to be dealt with her wide array of mysterious weapons.

Quirk: think of every kind of magical girl genre ever. Amp the firepower by 33 and spanning back centuries. Each new bearer has their own widespread abilities but can use the previous generation’s abilities (called suits). Zhalia has been the only one to access the entirety of every Knight that has been before her (called different things related to dynasty or legacy. Suits similar attributes such as fire or ice is such an thing while those unique and one of a kind have a name for themselves). She can change from each one of her suits with the pendant around her neck, called equip. Some suits give her certain abilities. Like a higher tolerance if not complete immunity to flame and frost. Enhanced strength or speed amongst others. (The support department still demand answers). The ‘suits’ change to fit the current bearer and has a ‘timeless look’ when it comes to fashion.

Appearance: Zhalia is a full figured girl with dark brown skin, Crystal rainbow quartz hair that changes length depending on the suit she’s equipped with but by default, it is incredibly long kept in an high ponytail with a plain black ribbon with A symmetrical bangs framing her face. Her almond shaped eyes are that of an onyx crystal that sparks different kinds of color depending on what she intends to do. Her hero costume is that of what she equips for the situation. But ‘her’ suit as she puts it. ‘Is incomplete’ so she has to use ‘The Silver Squire’ from generations prior…which gives both heroes and villains alike nightmares. The Silver Squire is a full suit of sterling armor with a silver hair band that would resemble the face guard and in her hair it is still in its ponytail braid but now has silver weaves into it and is armed with a rapier with diamonds within the hilt and around the armor. No skin is showing whatsoever and yet it is still form fitting. There is also silver and gray designs around her eyes and has metal studs in her ears.

Personality: she is a kind but secretive individual. She has secrets that she has admitted to the class that she does not want to talk about. She is determined and incredibly stubborn as proven when she kept her mouth shut when Endevaor demanded answers out of her when it was made known that she had information on a vigilante that all the heroes were hunting down. She kept her cool and kept silent. She has also proven to keep her head under pressure and cannot be cracked easily as Endvaor tried to intimidate her into giving up said information and she also stood up to Aizawa about it. She cares for those that she trusts and sees as friends and will see to it that no harm comes to them. But she does not take anything lying down and will jump to defend her friends and the innocent when the situation calls for it. Can be a cynical and vindictive bitch if someone were to wrong her friends or take something important to her and will not hesitate to retaliate violently. She had beaten down Bakugo when he kept mocking and being hostile to Midoriya.

Ancestral training: she has been trained by the literal ghosts of her past ever since she has gotten her quirk. Her training was brutal and had to become a walking army with the toughness to match in order to operate the suits properly without being overwhelmed or killed. One of the suits is the best at defense but in turn is the heaviest out of all of the suits put together. All of the swords are incredibly heavy, the lightest being the Sterling Rapier of the Silver Squire weighing as much as three of Bakugo.

Weakness: her mental state. If she loses it. Remember she has the power to literally give All For One a run for his money. Her mental state is what keeps the unbridled power in check along with the voices of those of past running through her mind as well as to keep EVERYTHING that was bestowed onto her in check. And her willingness to die, it scares Deku just how quickly she’ll jump into life threatening situations knowing that she might die and just brushes it off. There is no physical weakness…well, a wafer thin one but unlikely. Knock her out before she arms herself or equips…but her speed is unreal. Is known to get trapped in her own head.

I had been here for quite a bit. I know today is Izuku’s birthday. But I don’t know if the gift I have created would be enough. The gift lays in a pocket dimension having the final touches made to it as she waits for Midoriya to come through the door. The rest of the class has already come through for Midoriya was asked to have a chat with Yagi Sensei for a bit. I slam my head against the desk which gained the attention of my classmates. “Are you alright?” Asked Iida as he begins to approach the desk, “just peachy. Silently panicking but peachy.” I answer and I immediately regret that second sentence for now I am bombarded by questions by the rest of the class, even Aizawa peeked his head up from his sleeping bag, the question evident on his face.

I had to assure them multiple times that it’s nothing but none of them drop it & had even more vigor to keep pressing after I pinned Mineta to the ceiling with surikins when he got near my bag. I had to give in if I want to keep them out of my hair, “alright alright. You win.” I groan and they all had the glow of triumph as I summon the gift from the pocket dimension and into my open hand. “If you all must know I am a little afraid that Izuku won’t like my gift.” I admitted they all look at it star struck as I had the wrapping paper that of the stars in the night sky and the ribbon of the sun burning bright, “what is it?” Asked Ochako resisting the urge to poke it and see if it’ll snap at her, “a few things really.” I answer I then make vanish as it is not finished yet. Thank god that Midoriya came through the door before there was a further grilling. I got the stares of ‘this isn’t over’ from everyone.

We went through the day as usual and then everyone began giving Midoriya his gifts. I waited to be last because anxiety is fun. Once I plucked up the courage and smack Katsuki into the ground after calling him a nerd, I go up to him with the now full gift in hand and hand it to him. Any or all heroes that are present are astounded by this for no one in the [redacted] family has given anyone a gift outside their family. Not even my mother. With the most confident voice I can muster, “happy birthday Izuku Midoriya.” I say with a big smile, silently praising every divine that my voice didn’t shake or wobble, He smiles at me and says equally joyful, “thanks!” We all then went our separate ways. Myself into the unknown as the rest gather around the birthday boy to see what I had given him.

I wonder how he likes the All Might both his buff form and true form in the Sunlight Crusader figurine standing back to back as well as a few things All Might themed that do a lot more than they seemed. And as a finishing touch, a small Deku portrait with the same importance as the tapestries within The Archive walls.

I hold a lot of secrets. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let anyone, hero or villain get in my way.

((I know that I might be a little late to the party. Wrote the story on my phone. But happy belated birthday Izuku. Hope you like the story))

[peacekeeperangel]

WAFF- RP: A Chilly Welcome

Another Good RP session with @ichiwashername-o​ so I thought I’d post the transcript and let y’all follow along. Things have turned fairly dramatic

Angel: Cirri has practiced for weeks. Glad to be quietly in the background as Mettaton played both Prima Ballerina and leading man (and my wasn't that impressive) but eventually time rolled on and it was opening night. Cirri had managed to score tickets for both her Skelebros, her Dads and even her boyfriend Jasper (Who then proceeded to invite his family along, but they bought their own tickets)

a darkly dressed creature hung out on some of the higher stage lights away from the crowds but keeping a watchful eye on her target.

Meanwhile Jasper was shmoozing with the Skeleton brothers, his siblings were doing their own thing but oddly, Malachite was trading talk with Gaster, wearing the same formal uniform that he had the night of the King's Birthday bash where Jasper had met Cirri

"You guys ever been to a ballet before?" Jasper asked

Ichiko: "Never!" Papyrus said, squirming in his seat to get the best view of the stage.  "But I'm excited that my very first one is starring my sister!"

Gaster smiled wanly. <<Let's not exaggerate, Papyrus, she has a small background part.>>

"Well then she's MY star!" he cheered.  Sans happily nodded in agreement.  

"Coulda done without the fancy formal wear," Sans muttered, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt.  Though they weren't wearing tuxedos and dressed to the nines like Gaster and Grillby were, they were still wearing white pressed dress shirts, Sans with a bow tie and Papyrus with a crimson tie.  

"On the contrary, what a better time to dress up all nice and fancy!" Grillby said, adjusting his own bow tie.

<<Says the bartender who spends every day in formal wear,>> Gaster chuckled.

Angel: Jasper Shrugged, his own high-collar and sash making up for the goofy oversized sleeves to make up for his large spiked forearms. "Got to hand it to Emerald for getting all this stuff together." he admitted.

"I LIVE FOR MY ART!" Emerald squawked from a corner before having a cup of something hot and caffinated shoved in her face by Flint "You'll die for your art at his rate. how many all-nighters did you pull?"

"Three! Maybe... No Possibly fo-five?" Malachite stood beside Gaster. "Before we all go in.." he murmured just loud enough for Grillby and Gaster to hear "We need to talk. about what happened to you and Jasper a couple of weeks ago."

Ichiko: Gaster nodded, stepping aside along with Grillby.  <<What is it?  Do you have any further news?>> he asked.

Angel: Mal frowned "Something weird's going on in the Snowdin forest. Not near the more-travelled lanes near the RUINS but..." He looked over at his siblings watching as Sans suggested putting ketchup in Emerald's beverage much to the lady's sleep-deprived intrigue, both Jade and Papyrus strongly discouraging the train of thought.

"the Guard tried to investigate the area, to see who the Dogwhistle culprit could be. Instead Guards were subject to odd pranks to even downright attacks."

"No one's been hurt like Jasper was but-" Malachite shrugged. "It's bad enough with the Captain out on Indefinite Sick leave, but this spooky woods thing is making some Guards too nervous to defend Snowdin properly."

Ichiko: "Damn," Grillby hissed, sparks flying out of the jagged cracks of his mouth.  "Everything is such a goddamn mess.  What is the nature of these pranks?  More of those stupid punks?"

<<Or is it more . . . violent?>> Gaster asked, giving a worried look to Grillby.  The elemental flinched at the way Gaster was looking at him.  He looked so unsettled.  Grillby didn't like it.

"If need be . . . I am willing to help track down the culprit behind everything," Grillby said hesitantly but resolutely.  "I will dawn the mantle of Captain of the Guard again."

<<Grillby--!>> Gaster said, startled.

"I will do what must be done.  To protect my people."  Grillby was firm in his position, standing tall and determined.  But his eyes were filled with a certain sadness Gaster knew too well.

This was the last thing Grillby wanted after he retired so long ago.  But Gaster knew the elemental could be just as stubborn as he.

Angel: "I couldn't ask you to do that Grillby, even if I was in power to do so." Malachite said. "I'm just a beat cop at best. Actually it'll be up to the four lieutenants that are currently doing a... well Attempting to run the Guard." Malachite grimaced. "And to be honest I think all four are more keen to be Captain then to allow a War Vet to take up the reigns."

Ichiko: "In any case, should you need another monster in your ranks . . ."  Grillby trailed off.  His flames were noticeably low.  "Come now, the show will begin shortly."  He briskly walked into the theater, Gaster following him closely.

<<Grillby, you don't need to do this.  The title nearly ruined you!>> he protested.

"And how can I sit by idly as whoever is responsible runs loose?" Grillby challenged fiercely.  "You are not the only one who cares for Cirri and the boys.  I will do what must be done to protect them."

Angel: Mal scowled quietly to himself.  "... Getting worked up again big bro?" Jasper said cautiously.

"Sorry Jasper... I just really look up to General- ah... Grillby." Malachite said, "If there's anyone in the Underground who deserves a bit of peace it's him."

"You'll figure out the crap going on in Snowdin, I believe in you Mal." Jasper said throwing a reassuring arm over his shoulders. "Come on we gotta make sure Emerald gets to her Seat before passing out."

"To your places people!" Mettaton called- or rather Trilled , dressed up in the "Prince" Costume he had personally designed (Cirri tended to think it was a little overkill on the glitter, which was trailed up and down the stage) "Curtain call in five! Where's my Lead Attendant?!"

"We're all set MTT!" Cirri called out, dressed in a simple but classy tutu of brown and green. It was supposed to make her look like a Tree but Cirri had to wonder...

The plan was for Cirri and the "Attendants" To dance around Mettaton long enough for him to switch roles without destroying narrative flow. Honestly it was more complicated than Cirri would have liked, but she wasn't the director/leads in this goofy thing.

Everyone set their positions and the music began to play as the curtain rose up a rush of cool air coming from the seats

"What the crap is the Robot wearing?" Flint grunted quietly. "He looks like had an accident in a Disco!" Jade shushed her brother. Jasper however, wasn't paying attention- he was all eyes on Cirri

Ichiko: Gaster had to scoff at the sheer arrogance of Mettaton being so flippantly abrasive with his rendition of Swan Lake, but he reminded himself he was not here to see that pompous box of bolts dance, just Cirri.  he watched her dance with the grace of air and move so fluidly she put the other dancers to shame.  They were all quite good, Gaster admitted that, but why did Metatton have to be so hideously distracting.

Papyrus was bouncing in his seat, giddly pointing in a shout-whisper "There she is! There she is!" before his brother quietly shushed him. The surrounding monsters were glaring at them.  They were enjoying it, they seemed, as the dance told the tale.

Angel: The story quickly became more complicated as the "Swan Princess" came onto the scene (Mettaton wearing more glitter and Feathers than a Vegas Showgirl) surrounded by another group of "Attendants" in Swan costumes. this went on, several costume changes and a few brief intermissions without incident but eventually it reached the Finale- the Ballroom scene where the Prince would dance with an Imposter Swan Princess- only to find the real Princess dying of heartbreak in the hands of the Wicked Wizard. Cirri was among the crowd as a member of the court

Flint shivered slightly. "Does anyone find it oddly chilly all of a sudden?" he murmured to his siblings

"Wait Cold?" Jasper murmured anxiously. "Guys before-"

It was too late. a Dark blue shadow jumped down in front of Mettaton, wrapping a rope around his one wheel and giving a mighty tug as he was shot up into the rafters of the Stage

a Wave of icy cold fog shot through the theatre and one of the backup dancers screamed in terror- which only resulted in Pandemonium in the audience

the Icy Blue Female turned and pointed at Cirri "You." She intoned flatly.  the other dancers veering away from Cirri as they fled.

Cirri stared too dumbfounded to move.

"Lord Vulpeca requests your presence immediately." the woman said flatly, her eyes hidden under layers of cloth and hood. "You will come with me."

Ichiko: Gaster was moving faster than lightning, bounding over the rows of chairs as patrons scrambled to the exit.  Grillby was right behind him, his flames snapping in fury.  Gaster's eyes blazed with blue light, which aggravated the brands carved on his bones.  He ignored the pain, focusing on the one lone figure standing before Cirri.

He reached out with his blue magic--

A lightningbolt of pain shot up his arm, the brands activating and disrupting his magic, and he cried out in pain, falling to one knee.  Gritting his teeth, he picked himself up and continued towards the stage.  Grillby beat him there, moving between Cirri and the hooded figure.  His fire was dangerously hot, even among the icy mist.

"Who are you?" he challenged.

Angel: the Figure lowered her hand, a fresh wave of cold washed against Grillby's heat. "... I do not know." she said in the same monotone.

Jasper raced to assist Gaster. "Doc, what the hell is going on?!" he hissed helping the skeleton up "Why is she after Cirri?!"

Ichiko: <<Does that matter?!>> he snapped.  He jumped on stage, pulled Jasper up by the cuff of his shirt and joined next to Grillby. The cold was piercing, even to the temperature-resistant skeleton. And it was having a dire affect on the elemental.  Though he was strong and his flames still fought against the cold, Gaster could see him strain.  He stepped forward.

<<You are under arrest,>> Gaster said lowly.  <<But please, do make this difficult for us.  It will only end badly for you!>>

Angel: the creature of cold tilted her head, as if confused. "It doesn't matter." She said coolly before taking off her hood, the light of the stage now showing off the faint outline of a human skull in a thick layer of ice that made the woman's "Flesh."

"Can you tell me who I am?" she asked "If not, then I must do what needs to be done."

in the crowd Flint perked up. "...What?" It was impossible!

Jasper grabbed Cirri "Let's get out of here, let your dads handle it... Cirri?"

Cirri shivered, but not from the cold. "No no no no no no..." She squeaked. "Why did I think he was gone of course not-" Jasper shook her gently. "Cirri!"

it didn't do any good. she was too deep into her panic to form coherent thoughts

"I will take the girl now." the Ice skeleton began to walk towards Grillby and Gaster, the aura of cold intensifying as she approached

Ichiko: Gaster stood there, reaching out suddenly and grabbing her by the shoulder, his grip hard enough to break her clavicle.  His eyes were furious, teeth beginning to lengthen to fangs and his newly-forming claws digging into her bones.

<<Not a chance, bitch!>>

The cold was becoming too much for Grillby.  He turned, scooping up Cirri and retreating.  "Come on, we have to move, now!"

Angel: "Right!" Jasper was right on Grillby's heels but paused to call a wall of Crystal to block the path, just in case.

Meanwhile the Ice Woman barely winced as Gaster destroyed her shoulder in his process of becoming huge. "Just as Lord Vulpeca said." She intoned flatly before laying a hand on Gaster's rune-scarred wrists. Within seconds a thick frost began dancing though the scarred bones, pushing the monster-made cracks painfully wide.

Ichiko: Gaster roared in pain, dropping to his knees.  He snarled, his ever-lengthening fangs grinding against each other.  His head jerked forward, his monstrous jaws clamping hard down around her wrist, shattering her bones.  With a backhand, Gaster threw her across the stage.

The changes were so painful, especially with the runes.  He pressed a clawed hand against his wrists, hissing in pain.

Angel: the Ice Woman pulled herself up. "... You should have broken my back." She intoned. "At least that would have gotten me to stop moving." she looked at her limp broken wrist. "Hm. Easy to solve." she then held the gloved hand and yanked hard, earning a sickening crunch. then her hand glowed green as magic mended the damage. "I have suffered worse damage than this."

Flint blinked watching from the seats. "Flint we have to go!" Jade insisted tugging on her older brother's arm. "You know what Doctor Gaster's capable of!"

Flint didn't move.

"I have no time for this nonsense." she held up her reccently healed hand. "Wait here." Spikes of Ice shot up from under Gaster, not enough to cause severe harm, but close. Some sprouting between the spaces of his bones. Within seconds the Ice had grown enough that both his arms and legs were incased in Ice

"Wait here." she insisted and with a puff of icy fog she was gone, back after Cirri, Jasper and Grillby

IchikoWindGryphon: Gaster struggled in the ice, but every move was agony.  He was trapped.  He let out another loud roar of frustration, more animal than man.

Grillby skittered to a halt just as the figure appeared before them in an icy swirl.  Oh god, it was so cold.  Grillby felt his knees buckle, his flames growing weaker.  But still he clung to Cirri tightly.  

"I will not let you take her!" he said fiercely.

<<AND NEITHER WILL WE!>>

A beam of pure energy blasted the hooded figure where she stood.  Just off-stage, there stood Papyrus in his Blaster form, and Sans with a glowing blue eye and bones ready to be unleashed.  He turned to Gaster, and with a flick of his wrists, the bones shot forward, pelting Gaster's icy tomb.  He managed to break free, grunting.  He steadied himself on his feet, reigning back in his transformation.

<<.....Thank you, Sans,>> he whispered.  The short skeleton only nodded.

Angel: the icy figure stood up. "This is proving a troublesome plan." She said "I will simply have to improvise." Icy spears form out of the fog, shooting everything and everyone in sight. each one exploding into bursts of icy cold fog blinding the entire area

Then a sharp trill fills the air. Jasper, claps his hands on his head and screams but doesn't suffer the same level of damage that the dogwhistle resulted in- it feels more like something is vibrating everything in his body

Ichiko: Papyrus let out a whine as he crumpled to the ground, paws clawing at his head.  Gaster collapsed as well, slamming his hands against his skull.  Sans winced in pain, but he had to move!  He raced forward, ignoring the screeching in his head, and grabbed Grillby, Cirri and Jasper.  

"hold on!"

In a flash of blue magic, they had teleported.  Stars filled their vision and a wave of nausea hit them as they crumpled on the ground.  They were in the caverns of waterfall, but where exactly Sans didn't know.  He winced.

"Urgh . . . sorry, I . . . it was hard to concentrate, I botched the jump.  Are you guys ok?"

Angel: Jasper groaned. "I think I'm going to hurl but it's better than being shaken to bits... " he groaned wiping some of his magical blood from his nose. "Cirri?"

"I..." Cirri clung tight to Grillby but she seemed to be coming out of her catatonia

Ichiko: "Shhh, I got you, you're ok," Grillby whispered, gently rocking Cirri.  "It's ok."

Now out of the cold, Grillby's flames returned to their healthy and vibrant state. Although Waterfall was less than ideal, he could deal with damp caves.  but that cold had been so piercing . . . worse than anything he had ever experienced in Snowdin . . .

"Who the hell was that?" Sans asked the obvious question.  Grillby only shook his head.

Angel: "She said something about a... Vulpecula?" Jasper wheezed looking back behind them. "I asked Gaster but- well things got kind of crazy. We should probably find a Guard Outpost anyway. Cirri'll be safer from the Psycho Ice bitch behind a few armed soldiers- I bet Mal's already got the guard on alert too!"

Ichiko: Sans and Grillby instantly froze.  Vulpeca?!  No, it couldn't--!

Sans and the elemental shared a terrified glance.  

"The guard can't help us," Grillby whispered hoarsely.  "Gaster's lab defenses should still be functional!  He never shut them off!  We need to head to head to the lab, now!"

Grillby pulled out his phone, dialing Gaster.  He doubted he was in any state to read a text but should he have a free moment . . .

GASTER, HEAD TO LABS ASAP. THE MONSTER WORKS FOR VULPECA.

Grillby hit send.

"Sans, you need to get us to the labs!"

Sans nodded, breathing deeply and holding on to Grillby andJasper's shoulders tight.  "Ok, hold on!"

Another flash of blue and they were in the heart of the Hotland laboratory.  Sans swooned under the strain.

"Ugh, I'm going to . . . take five. . . ow my head .. ." he slumped on the tile floor.

Angel: "Dude!" Jasper scooped up Sans but the little skeleton was down for the count. "What's going on? Who's this Vulpeca guy?!" Cirri flinched and buried her face into Grillby's coat

Ichiko: "A dangerous criminal, and that's all you need to know," Grillby said fiercely.  Still cradling Cirri, he raced to the control room, verifying everything was still online.  "He's . . . he has targeted Cirri for his own sick twisted amusement.  and he is under no circumstances to be underestimated."

Angel: Jasper blinked, following along carrying Sans in the crook of one arm. "No wonder Cirri's so scared." His Soul nearly broke in two. "How long as this fuck been targeting her?"

Ichiko: "......" Grillby didn't say anything for a minute, preferring to scan the control room.  Everything was in order. Everything was online, every safety measure had been activated.

".....too long." he finally said.

Angel: Outside the lab the Icy Ninja stood staring, a thick rime of ice was both forming and melting in the Hotland heat. "This is getting ridiculous." She muttered. it had taken nearly all of her strength and a good portion of one of her coat sleeves to freeze he two blaster beasts in a thick block of ice. It would take the three...oddly familiar Stone Elementals a good long while to carve the bone monsters free though- which left only three remaining obstacles between her and her goal.

a short distance away Flint was running at top speed- He had this awful thought- and he hoped to heaven he was wrong.

Jasper found a couple of woolly blankets and brought them over to Cirri and Sans- Cirri having clung to her unconscious sibling like an oversized teddy bear.

"Here, this should help you feel better, I hope anyway." Jasper wrapped the duo in the blanket.

"Thanks Jasper..." Cirri murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Jasper said plopping on the floor next to her.

"For getting you involved in this... Nightmare." she replied. "I j-just wanted-" Jasper drew Cirri close.

"You'll get it. We can beat her. You'll never see that sick freak as long as you live I promise." Jasper replied "Remember what I said at your Dad's bar? I'll always reach for you, like the Mountain reaches for the sky."

A chill began to seep into the room, followed by the discharge of energy and the random smashing of destroyed machinery

Ichiko: Grillby let out a frustrated roar.  "Goddamn it!!!" His fire filled the room with intense heat.  He turned to the controls, activating the maze of lasers between them and whatever was out there.  "All of you get behind me!"

Angel: Jasper quickly drew Cirri in behind Grillby, Cirri still hugging Sans and watching the Laser-maze with wild-eyed hopelessness

Suddenly the smashing and blasting stopped and everything was deathly quiet

"... It cannot be that easy." Jasper grunted

  a Blast of icy fog showered down onto Grillby from an above air vent

The ice woman jumped down into the fog a wedge of Ice in her hand which soon found it's home in Grillby's leg, quickly growing until it became a spear pinning him to the floor

"Papa!" Cirri screamed throwing a blast of Hotland air at the fog- which was enough to keep Grillby from being dusted from the cold, but not enough to free him from the ice

Ichiko: Grillby wretched and screamed in pain, grasping at the icicle and his hands steaming as they touched the ice.  He was panicking, desperately clawing at his leg.

With what little strength Sans had, he leaped to his feet and began clawing at the spike, freeing him.

But he was so weak now.  His flames were so cool.  Sans gasped a wheezing breath, fearing that Grillby would fade to nothing then and there.  

He turned to the woman, furious.  

"JUST LEAVE US ALONE!"

He tried to stand, but he was still too disoriented  he tried to shift, do something! But every expenditure of energy left him dizzy and sick

"Please, please leave my sister alone!"

Angel: "... I can't do that." She replied, turning away "Vulpeca wants her. Vulpeca promised to help me. this is his price." Jasper shoved Cirri behind him.  "Your LVL is pathetically weak boy. Just let her go, she will not be harmed by me."

"Get bent lady." Jasper growled sprouting spikes of jasper rock- the same rock as his horns- directly from his body "Your sick fuck boss isn't going anywhere near her."

the woman tilted her head, then raised a hand, a boulder of ice shot out of nowhere cracking into Jasper's side sending him flying into the console. there was a few sparks and snaps, and the Laser maze sputtered out and died

"That makes things simpler." the woman finally returned her gaze to Cirri. "Will you fight me too?" She asked the horrified air elemental.

"I SAID LEAVE MY GIRLFRIEND ALONE YOU BITCH!" Jasper roared his fangs fully bared, looking more like a Geode of razor blades than anything remotely monster-like

he plowed into the Ice woman charging down the hall in manic desperate rage leaving the three monsters alone in the lab

"Sans, Grillby!" Cirri stood up. "Will you two be alright?"

Ichiko: Sans hovered over Grillby, still weak and gasping for breath.  His form looked thinner, as if starved.  His mouth opened and closed several times, faint whispers leaving his lips.  Sans leaned close over him.

". . . . lava . . ." he gasped.  "t-throw me . . . in lava . . . restore my strength . . ."

Sans nodded.  He needed a source of fire; it was the only way to quickly restore his weakened state.  Fortunately the CORE had just what he needed. Slinging Grillby on his back, the skeleton half-dragged, half-carried Grillby down several long, twisting halls, to a lower floor that had a catwalk over a  pit of boiling lava.  

Sans looked at Grillby, and he gave a weak nod.

Sans then dropped him over the railing, to the boiling molten lake of fire below.

Grillby fell, hitting the fire lake just a few short feet away.  He lay there, unmoving, for several seconds.

The fire then erupted in a volcanic explosion.

Grillby, absorbing the very heat from the earth itself, exploded out of the pit, leaping back onto the catwalk.  His form was not just fire anymore, but magma and lava dripping off him like tar.  His form was larger, more savage-looking, and smoke billowed from the fissure that was his mouth.  His body radiated heat intense enough to warp the metal he stood on.

He strode past Cirri and Sans, renewed.

"Let's kill that bitch," he snarled.

The Firestorm General had been reborn.

Angel: Meanwhile Jasper had charged a few yards before plowing the Icewoman into a wall- he had seen and learned, he didn't hesitate for a second throwing blow after blow, breaking whole blocks of ice from her body, exposing bone which cracked under his stony fists until she blew him away in a gust of Icy wind- it only served to turn his green grassy hair yellow from the cold.

He charged in again with enough force to break through the wall into the street- right in front of Flint.

the Ice woman had lost a leg, a torn stump at the knee only remained, but she didn't bleed- much. a navy-blue ichor seeped quietly from the wound and a dozen others.

"Gah!" Jasper wheezed. "Lady whatever the hell you're looking for it's not worth this much bullcrap!" He panted. "Just give up!"

the woman didn't move- that last strike had in fact broken her back. "I cannot. I need to find them."

"WHO?!" Jasper shouted.

"...I don't know." the Ice woman said in her usual flat voice. "They will fix me. Make me whole again."

"I'm sure Doctor Gaster could help- yanno when you stop stalking his foster-daughter and being a huge bitch!" Jasper said standing straight again.

"He will kill me. Vulpeca has told me as such."

Jasper facepalmed. "In case you haven't noticed I'm about five seconds away from Killing you here and now!" he stomped over and squatted beside the prone ice-creature

"You must do what you need to in order to survive. I understand." Flint jumped like a pin had been stuck into him.

A wave of heat came from the lab. "I have failed. Do what you must." the Ice woman said

Jasper raised his hands forming a fist about the size of the Ice woman's head-

Ichiko: Grillby stalked out of the lab, the massive wave of heat assaulting the three.  Metal warped around him, his footprints left flames in his wake, the air steamed around his hellish form.  And his eyes blazed with fury.

He marched up to the ice woman, hand extended, dripping with lava, as a ball of fire formed in his hand.

"YOU HURT MY DAUGHTER." he said in a hissing whisper.  "I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS TRANSGRESSION TO GO UNPUNISHED."

Angel: "WAIT!" Flint howled throwing himself over the Ice woman "I Beg Mercy on her Behalf!"

"Flint what the Fuck?!" Jasper yelped. "She's not going to stop let Grillby-"

"She's our Mother Jasper!" Flint bawled

The ice woman flinched. "What- Flint have you- Mom's DEAD you told me she died!" Jasper shouted, an edge of confused hysteria in his voice

Ichiko: Grillby faltered, the fire in his hand disappearing. "....your mother is dead, Flint," he said mournfully.  "She died a very long time ago."

Angel: "No! I don't know how, but this is her!" Flint screamed not moving "This is Irelle!"

"I-I-I..." the ice woman stammered "I am... What... Irelle...!?" She yammered shaking violently

"Your name is Irelle! You Summoned me into Life on the Sixth of August! Mom it's Flint!" Flint grabbed the twitching Ice woman in his own meaty hands "You stayed behind to stop the Human army- You saved all our lives!" Flint said

then the ice woman began to scream- like a child's high-pitched scream only a thousand times sharper

Flint and Jasper grabbed their heads to block the sound- only for the Ice woman to vanish in puff of icy fog

"No..." Flint moaned

Ichiko: Grillby was at a loss.  He stared between Jasper and Flint.  He tried to think, tried to--

It hit him.

He remembered the story of Gaster's own creation.

What if . . .

Oh god, what if Vulpeca reanimated Irelle the very same way Gaster came to be?!

It was too cruel. It was too horrible to comprehend.

His shoulders heaved.

"I . . . . I am so very sorry .. ." he whispered.

Angel: "Dammit!" Flint sobbed burying his face in his hands, Jasper coming over to offer him support. "I'm going to kill Vulpeca with my own Damn hands." Jasper whispered with a frightening level of calm. "He's not getting away with this."

"Jasper, what are we going to tell the others?" Flint asked mournfully. "They.. Oh god Mom..."

Cirri watched from behind the group, her soul breaking for Jasper and Flint

Meanwhile in a dark and spooky portion of Snowdin wood, a Ice Woman is half-dragging herself through the snow, Navy ichor dripping from her stump leg.

"Looks like you failed." an Ash Grey Fox monster steps out of the gloom.

"I succeeded!" The woman barked. "I am Irelle! I have a name! a Family! a-" the fox placed a finger on her frozen lips and she goes limp. "You're hallucinating again my dear." He says softly as he scoops the Ice woman up, not even flinching from her piercing cold.

"I... am..." She murmurs in her flat voice. "No wonder, it seems you left a piece of yourself behind- I shall have to fix that"

"Why...?" she asks dazedly earning an evil chuckle from the fox

"Because I am your noble Master who will do anything for you." He says sweetly "As long as you do as I say...."

Ichiko: Back at Hotlands, Gaster and Papyrus finally broke free of their icy prison and raced to the labs, where they saw Grillby, Cirri, Sans, and the elemental brothers.  The shock and grief was all too clear on their face.  

But Gaster was staring hard at Grillby.  Even Papyrus shied away from Grillby's more monstrous, enhanced form.  The fire elemental could not meet their eyes.

<<What happened?>> Gaster demanded.

Grillby could only shake his head.  He looked at Gaster with a haunted look in his eyes.

"You are no longer alone," he said forebodingly.